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ENGLISH    SONNETS. 


CHISWICK    PRESS  :— C.    WHITTINCHAM    AND   CO.    TOOKS   COURT. 
CHANCERY   LANE. 


2Dante  (Babriel  Ko00ctti 

THIS  VOLUME  IS,  BY  PERMISSION, 

2DclJicatcD» 


preface* 

HE  following  selection  has  been  prepared  for 


publication  as  a  companion  volume  to  "Eng- 
lish Sonnets  by  Living  Writers  :" — and  it  is 
hoped  that  in  these  two  anthologies,  the  one  including 
the  authors  of  the  Past  and  the  other  those  of  the  Present, 
the  whole  of  our  best  English  sonnet-literature  will  be 
found  to  be  fairly  represented.  Several  poets  and 
sonneteers  that  have  been  omitted, — in  a  few  instances 
somewhat  strangely  omitted, — from  previous  selections, 
are  here,  for  the  first  time,  allowed  to  occupy  that  space 
to  which  they  are  so  justly  entitled,  and  from  which  they 
have  apparently  been  driven  by  supplanters  of  a  lower 
rank.     Tlic  Editor  would  especially  call  attention  to  the 


viii  j'i:/:/-:ic!:. 

two  plaintive,  yet  noble,  sonnets  by  Robert  Buins  (jip. 
62-3):  the  first  of  which,  beginning — 

Sing  on,  sweet  thrush,  upon  the  leafless  hough  ; 
Sing  on,  sweet  bird,  I  listen  to  thy  strain    - 

is  surely  one  of  the  sweetest  and  most  pathetic  of  all  our 
sonnets,  and  certainly  deserving  of  a  place  in  all  future 
sonnet-anthologies.  Among  other  poets  not  included  in 
previous  selections,  who  are  represented  in  the  follow- 
ing pages,  may  be  mentioned  Robert  Herrick,  whose 
sonnets,  though  irregular  in  form,  are  nevertheless  works 
of  much  beauty,  and  are  written  after  the  manner  of  those 
of  his  contemporary  William  Habington,  the  author  of 
Casta7-a,  and  one  of  the  most  productive  sonneteers  of 
that  age.  The  reader  will  also  find  sonnets  by  Dean 
Milman ;  George  Eliot;  Bernard  Barton,  the  Quaker 
poet;  Henry  Francis  Gary,  the  well-known  translator  of 
Dante;  William  Motherwell  ;  Thomas  Noel,  the  author 
of  The  Pauper's  Dj-ive  and  other  poems  ;  John  Anster  ; 
George  Morine,  &c.  &c.  It  has  been  deemed  advisable  to 
relegate  to  tlie  Notes  at  the  end  of  the  volume,  specimens 
of  the  work  of  i\\6  or  three  authors  whose  poems  are  of 
interest  only  in  connection  with  the  history  of  the  Sonnet, 


PREFACE.  ix 

and  are  not  such  as  would  afford  pleasure  to  ordinary 
modern  readers.  Amongst  these  will  be  found  examples 
of  the  compositions  of  Sir  Thomas  Wyatt  and  his  friend 
the  Earl  of  Surrey,  the  earliest  writers  in  English  of  this 
form  of  verse.  Also  the  less  famous  of  Blanco  White's 
two  sonnets  will  he  found  at  page  232; — his  Night  and 
Death  is,  of  course,  given  in  the  body  of  the  book. 

As  tliose  who  are  well  acquainted  with  the  late  Rev. 
Alexander  Dyce's  pleasant  Selection  of  sonnets  will  re- 
member that  he  included  a  large  number  by  John 
Bamphylde  and  by  Miss  Anna  Seward,  the  Editor  would 
take  this  opportunity  of  explaining  that  he  has  omitted 
these  sonneteers  advisedly,  and  after  due  consideration  of 
their  respective  merits  and  defects.  And  this  observation 
applies  also  to  a  few  other  minor  poets  such  as  Philip 
Ayres,  Thomas  Edwards,  Walsh,  Chapman,  Kirke 
White,  Beddoes,  &c.  &c. 

A  recent  writer  in  the  ' '  Westminster  Review  "  has 
pointed  out  that  "  the  Sonnet  is  beginning  to  take  the 
same  place  amongst  us,  making  allowance  for  altered 
circumstances,  as  the  Epigram  did  with  the  Creeks  : " — 
and  of  both  these  kinds  of  composition  it  may  be  re- 
b 


X  PREFACE. 

marked,  in  tlic  words  of  an  old  autlior,  tlial  altlicugli  a 
little  thing  gives  perfection,  perfection  is  not  a  little  thing. 
In  both  "style  is  put  under  high  pressure,"  and  perhaps 
no  one  has  stated  this  better,  or  more  forcibly,  than  the 
present  Lord  Lytton,  who  writes, — "It  (the  Sonnet)  is  a 
form  of  verse  which  most  severely  tests  the  art  of  the  poet. 
It  admits  of  no  mediocrity.     It  must  be  written  with  the 
fist  instead  of  the  finger  ;  and  yet  with  a  delicacy  of  mani- 
pulation of  which  none  but  the  finest  and  most  skilful 
finger  is  capable."     And  to  this  may  be  added  that  the 
necessity  of  a  lyric  unity  both  of  thought  and   design, 
which  is  the  essential  quality  of  the  Sonnet,  does  not  in 
any  degree  lessen  the  difficulty  of  its  composition.     For 
whether  it  be  made  to  consist  of  three  parts,  like  the  three 
propositions  of  a  syllogism, — or  be  divided  into  two  sec- 
tions after  the  manner  of  the  Italian  writers, — or  be  com- 
posed in  the  image  (to  use  Wordsworth's  phrase)  of  an 
orbicular  body — a  sphere,  or  a  dew-drop, — in  all  cases 
one  idea,   one  thought,    one   mood,    must   pervade  and 
govern  the  whole,  and  must  endow  it  with  life  and  indi- 
viduality.    Perhaps  it  is  mainly  in  this  quality  of  oneness, 
and  in  the  necessity  of  being  concise  in  so  limited  a  space. 


PREFACE.  xi 

that  an  answer  will  be  found  to  the  question  so  often 
asked,  What  is  the  especial  merit  of  "this  curiously 
favourite  and  fortunate  form  of  verse?"  But,  indeed,  no 
answer  is  necessaiy  when  one  meets  with  such  a  charming 
example  of  the  fonn  as  the  following  sonnet,  addressed 
by  a  living  sonneteer  to  Wordsworth,  which  should  have 
been  included  in  our  previous  volume  : — 

'  So  long  as  Duddon  'twixt  his  cloud-girt  walls 

Thridding  the  woody  chambers  of  the  hills 

Warbles  from  vaulted  grot  and  pebbled  halls 

Farewell  or  welcome  to  the  meadow  rills  ; 

So  long  as  linnets  chant  low  madrigals 

Near  that  brown  nook  the  labourer  whistling  tills, 

Or  the  late-reddening  apple  forms  and  fails 

Mid  dewy  brakes  the  autumnal  redbreast  thrills, — 

So  long,  last  poet  of  the  great  old  race, 

Shall  thy  broad  song  through  England's  bosom  roll, 

A  river  singing  anthems  in  its  place. 

And  be  to  later  England  as  a  soul. 

Glory  to  Him  who  made  thee,  and  increase 

To  them  that  hear  thy  word,  of  love  and  peace  ! ' 

I     The  Editor  begs  to  thank  once  more  the  owners  of  the 

copyright  of  the  sonnets  published  during  recent  years, 

for  kindly  allowing  him  to  include  them  in  his  selection. 

47,  connaught  street, 
Hyde  Park,  W. 

August,  1881. 


/ 


j  CONTENTS. 

I  PREFACE. 

t,r  I.  Easter  Morning      ....     EdmuKd  Spenser    . 

1     2.  Willing  Bondage   .  .     .     Edmund  Spenser    . 

3.  True  Beauty      ...  .     Edtmind  Spenser _    . 

I     4.  Like  as  a  ship  that  through 

f  the  ocean  wide    .     .     .     Edtnuiui  Spenser    . 

\    5.  With  how  sad  steps,  O  moon, 

j  thou  climb'st  the  skies  .     Sir  Philip  Sidney   . 

j    6.  Having  this  day  my  horse, 

my  hand,  my  lance  .     .     Sir  Philip  Sidney   . 

I    7.  Since     Nature's    works    be 
I  good,   and   death  doth 

I'  serve Sir  Philip  Sidney  . 

8.  A   Vision   upon   the    Faery 

|]  Queen Sir  IValter  Raleigh 

j    9.  The  Constancy  of  Love  .     .     Joshua  Sylvester     . 

j  10.  Favour Henry  Constable 

II.  Pity  refusing  my  poor  love 

j  to  feed Henry  Constaile 

I  12.  The  Last  Chance  .     .     .     .     Michael  Drayton    . 

I  13.  To  the  River  Ankor  .     .     .     Michael  Drayton    . 

(  14.  To  Sleep Samuel  Daniel  .     . 


coyrE.vrs. 


19 


Remembrance   .     .     . 
Sunshine  and  Cloud    . 
The  True  and  the  I'alse 
The  World's  Way      . 
Life's  Autumn   .     .     . 

20.  The  Triumph  of  Death 

21.  The  Garden  of  Love  . 

22.  The    forward     Violet    tliiis 

did  I  chide     .     . 

23.  Hope  against  Hope    . 

24.  The  Beauty  of  Beauties 

25.  True  Love     .... 

26.  A  Picture      .... 

27.  Soul  and  Body .     .     . 

28.  Content 

29.  The  Talent    .... 

30.  To  Death      .... 

31.  Mary  Magdalen     .     . 

32.  Human  Frailty .     .     . 

33.  Sweet  Spring,  thou  turn'st 

with  all  thy  goodly  train 

34.  Before  a  Poem  of  Irene  .     . 

35.  No  Trust  in  Time  .     .     .     . 

36.  Alexis,     here    she    stayed ; 

among  these  pines   .     . 

37.  Trust  not,  sweet  soul,  those 

curled  waves  of  gold  . 
Down  in  a  valley,  by  a 
forest's  side  .... 
39.  A  rose,  as  fair  as  ever  saw 
the  North 


//7///V1W 

IF !  Ilia  III 
ll'illiain 
Williaiii 
William 
William 


Shakespeaye  . 
Shakespeare . 
Shakespeare . 
Shakespeare . 
Shakespeare . 
Shakespeare . 
Shakespeare . 


William  Shakespeare . 
William  Shakespeare. 
IFiiliam  Shakespeare  . 
William  ShaJiespeare . 
WiUiam  S/iakespearc . 
William  Shakespeare . 
Barnabe  Barnes . 
Bariiabe  Barnes. 
'John  Dotuie  .  .  .  . 
William  Druiiimond  . 
William  Dnimmoitd  . 

William  Drtimmond  . 
William  Drummond  . 
William  Drummond  . 

William  Drjimmond  . 

William  Drummond  . 

Williain  Browne    .     . 

William  Brozvne     . 


CONTENTS. 


Robert  Herrick 40 

Robert  H err ick 41 

George  Herbert 42 

George  Herbert 43 


40.  I  singofbrooks,ofblo5-soms, 

birds,  and  bowers     .     . 

41.  You  say  I  love  not  'cause  I 

do  not  play     .... 

42.  Love 

43.  Lord,  with  what  care  hast 

Thou  begirt  us  round  . 

44.  My    God,    where     is    that 

ancient    heat    towards 

Tiiee George  Herbert 44 

45.  On  his  Blindness   ....     yofin  Milton 45 

46.  Lady,  that  in  the  prime  of 

earliest  youth  ....     yo/tn  Milton 46 

47.  The  Nightingale    ....     yohn  I\Iilton 47 

48.  On    the    late    Massacre   in 

Piedmont John  Milton 48 

49.  Lawrence,  of  virtuous  father 

virtuous  son   ....     jfohii  Milton 49 

50.  When   the  Assault  was  in- 

tended to  the  City  .     . 

51.  On  the  Religious  Memory  of 

Mrs.  Catherine  Thom- 
son      

52.  The  Meaning  of  Life  .     .     . 

53.  To  Dampier Benjamin  Stilliiigfleet 

54.  On  the   Death  of  Richard 

West Thomas  Gray 54 

55.  Anniversary William  Mason      ....       55 

56.  On  Bathing Thomas  Warton     ....       56 

57.  On     Revisiting    the    River 

Lodon Thomas  Warton     ....       57 


John  Milton 50 


John  Milton 51 

Benjatnin  Stillingfleet     .     .       52 
53 


CONTENTS. 


58.  On  Diigdale's  '  Monasticon  ' 

59.  To  Mary  Uiiwiii     .... 

60.  'I'ho  Kivcr  Ariin      .... 

61.  The  Close  of  Spring   .     .     . 

62.  Sing  on,  sweet  thrush      .     . 

63.  On    the    Death   of    Robert 

Riddel 

64.  On  Parting  with  his  Boolts 

65.  Echo  and  Silence   .... 

66.  Absence 

67.  Ostend 

68.  Valclusa 

69.  At  Lemnos 

70.  Could  then  the  babes  from 

yon  unsheltered  cot  .     . 

71.  It  is  a  beauteous  evening, 

calm  and  free .... 

72.  Upon  Westminster  Bridge  . 

73.  England  and  Switzerland    . 

74.  Surprised  by  Joy   .... 

75.  Calm   is    all    nature    as    a 

resting  wheel  .... 

76.  How     sweet     it     is    when 

mother  Fancy  rocks     . 

77.  Nuns  fret   not  at  their  con- 

vent's narrow  room  .     . 

78.  The  world  is  too  much  with 

us,  late  and  soon      .     . 

79.  London,  1802     ... 

80.  On   the    Extinction   of  the 

Venetian  Republic  .     . 


'Thomas  Wdr/oii 
M'illiaiii  Cmv/cr 
Charlotte  Smith 
Charlotte  Smith 
Kobert  Burns 


Robert  Burns  .  .  . 
ll'^iliiam  Roscoe .  .  . 
Sir  S.  £gerton  Brydgcs 
William  Lisle  B envies 
iVilliam  Lisle  Bowles 
Thomas  Russell  .  . 
Thomas  Russell     .     . 

Thomas  R  ussell     .     . 

William  H'orcis^i'orth 
IVilliam  IVordsivorih 
IVilliam  Wordstvorth 
William  Wordsnuorth 

William  Wordsivorth 

William  Wordsivorth 

William  Wordsworth 

William  Wordsworth 
William  Words^vorih 

William  Wordsworth 


CONTENTS. 


A  Poet  1— He  hath  put  his 
heart  to  school     .     .     . 

I  watch,  and  long  have 
watched,  with  calm 
regret     

I  thought  of  thee,  my  part- 
ner and  my  guide    .     . 

84.  November,  1806  .... 

85.  London,  1802 

86.  A  Parsonage  in  Oxfordshire 

87.  Nature 

88.  Fancy  in  Nubibus     .     .     . 

89.  The  Autumnal  Moon     .     . 

90.  Farewell  to  Love  .... 

91.  1  ask  not  riches,  and  I  ask 

not  power 

92.  The  Mariner 

93.  To  a  Friend 

94.  To  Innocence 

95.  In   Christian  world  Mary 

the  garland  wears    . 

96.  Night  and  Death      .     .     . 

97.  Eternal    and    Omnipotent 

Unseen 

98.  On  the  Statue  of  a  Piping 

Faun 

99.  On  a  Green-House  .  .  . 
100.  The  Harvest  Moon  .  .  . 
loi.  To  a  Water  Bird  .... 

102.  To  Amoret 

103.  Fountain's  Abbey     .     .     . 


82. 


83. 


FACE 

William  Wordsworth       .     .       81 


Williain  Wordsworth 


Williavi  Vy'ordsworth 
Williavi  Wordsworth 
Williain  Wordsworth 
William  Wordsworth 
Samuel  Taylor  Coleridgi 
Samuel  Taylor  Coleridge 
Samuel  Taylor  Coleridge 
Samuel  Taylor  Coleridge 


90 


Henry  Francis  Cary  ...  91 

Robert  Southey 92 

Charles  Lamb 93 

Charles  Lamb 94 

Charles  Lamb 95 

Blanco  White 96 

Horace  Smith 97 

Horace  Smith 98 

Horace  Smith 99 

Lord  Thiirlow 100         ^rf*'*''^ 

Lord  Thtirlow  ' loi  "' 

Lord  Thurlow 102 

Ebenezer  Elliott 103 


CONTENTS. 


105. 
106. 


io8. 
109. 


Charles  Strong 
Charles  Strong 


115. 
116. 

117. 
118. 
119. 


120. 
121. 
122. 
123. 


104 
105 
106 

107 
108 

109 


The  Grasshopper  ;iiul  the 

Cricket Leigh  Hunt    .     . 

The  Nile Leigh  Hunt    .     . 

Orford  Castle Bernard  liarlon 

The  butterfly,  which  sports 

on  gaudy  wing    .     .     .     Bernard  Barton 

Winter Bernard  Barton 

Past  the  grey  tombs  what 

space  an  arrow  flies 
Is    this    the    spot    where 

Rome's  eternal  foe   .     . 
Pacing,  as  I  was  wont,  on 

day  of  rest Charles  Strong 

Ere  the  wide  waters  on  my 

view  had  smiled  .     .     .     Charles  Strong 
'Twas  near  the  walls  that 

gird  the  imperial  town .     Charles  Strong 
O    Thou !    whose    goUlen 

reins  curb  steeds  of  fire     Charles  Strong 
The  Evening  Cloud  .     .  yohn  Wilson  . 

Go  up  among  the  moun- 
tains, when  the  storm  .     John  Wilson  .     .     . 
The  Tomb  of  Charlemagne    Sir  Aubrey  de  Vere 

The  Landrail Sir  Aubrey  de  V^ ere 

Thy  cheek    is    pale    with 

thought,  but  not  from 

woe Lord  Byron 119 

Lake  Leman Lord  Byro7i 120 

Chillon Lord  Byron 121 

The  Fire-fly Bryan  Waller  Procter    .     .     122 

A  Still  Place Bryan  Waller  Procter    .     .     123 


113 


'5 


116 
"7 
118 


COXTENTS. 


124.  Life 

125.  Ye   hasten   to    the    dead  ! 

what  seek  ye  there  .     . 

126.  To  the  Nile 

127.  Ozymandias 

128.  Political  Greatness    .     .     . 

129.  To  Wordsworth    .     .     .     . 

130.  The  Love  of  God,  \.     .     . 

131.  „  „        IL    .     . 

132.  Huntspill  Tower .... 

133.  Oxford 

134.  At  Hooker's  Tomb   .      .     . 

135.  The  Thrush's  Nest  .     .     . 

136.  Flight  of  the  Spirit   .     .     . 

137.  The  Human  Seasons      .     . 

138.  On   the   Grasshopper    and 

Cricket 

139.  On  Chapman's  Homer  .     . 

140.  Addressed  to  Haydon   .     . 

141.  To  one  who  has  been  long 

in  city  pent      .     .     .     . 

142.  Solitude 

143.  Happy  is  England  !  I  could 

be  content  

144.  To  Sleep 

145.  Keats's  Last  Sonnet       .     . 

146.  Liberty 

J 47.  May,  1840 

148.  November 

149.  To    a    Deaf    and     Dumb 

Little  Girl       .... 


Thomas  DoiiHeday 

Percy  Bysslie  Shelley 
Percy  Bysshc  Shelley 
Percy  Bysshe  Shelley 
Percy  Bysshe  Shelley 
Percy  Bysshe  Shelley 
Dean  Mibnan 
Dean  Miliitan 
John  Keble  . 
John  Keble  . 
John  Keble  . 
John  Clare  . 
Felicia  Hemans 
John  Keats    . 

John  Keats  . 
John  Keats  . 
John  Keats    . 

John  Keats  . 
John  Keats     . 


John  Keats  .  . 
John  Keats  .  . 
John  Keats  .  . 
Hartley  Coleridge 
Hartley  Coleridge 
Hartley  Coleridge 

Hartley  Coleridge 


XIX 

PAGE 
.   124 

125 
126 
127 
128 
129 
130 

132 
133 
134 
135 
136 

137 

138 

139 
140 

141 
142 

143 
144 

145 
146 
147 

148 


X-^ 


CONTENTS. 


151. 
152. 

153- 

154. 


156. 

157- 
158. 
159. 
160. 

161. 
162. 
.63. 
164. 
165. 
166. 
167. 
168. 
169. 
170. 
171. 
172. 

173- 
174. 
'75- 


When  we  were  idlers  with 

the  loitering  rills      .     .  Hartley  Coleridge    . 

To  a  Lofty  Beauty   .     .     .  Hartley  Coleridge   . 

The  First  Man     ....  Hartley  Coleridge   . 

A  Confession Hartley  Coleridge    . 

Homer Hartley  Coleridge  . 

Whither  is  gone  the  wis- 
dom and  the  power.     .  Hartley  Coleridge   . 
We  parted  on   the  moun- 
tains, as  two  streams    .  Hartley  Coleridge   . 
The  Lone  Thorn  ....  Williant  Motlienvell 

Autumn Thomas  Hood     .     . 

Silence Tliomas  Hood     .     . 

It  is  not  death  that  some- 
time in  a  sigh  .  .     .     Thomas  Hood    .     . 

A  Sonnet  to  a  Sonnet   .     .  Tlwmas  Hood     .     . 

Joy  in  Sorrow Chatt/tcy  Hare  To^uris/teiid 

Hidden  Joys Samuel  Laman  Blancliar 

Pater  Vester  Pascit  Ilia     .  Robert  Stephen  Hawker . 

The  Twain Robert  StepJun  Hawker . 

Love Helena  C.  l^on  Ranke 

The  Lattice  at  Sunrise  .     .  Charles  Tennyson  Turner 

On  Startling  some  Pigeons  Cluirles  Tennyson  Turner 

Time  and  Twilight   .     .     .  Charles  Tennyson  Turner 

It  was  her  first  sweet  child  CJiarles  Tennyson  Turner 

A  Summer  Twilight .     .     .  Charles  Tennyson  Turner 
The  Quiet  Tide   near  Ar- 

drossan Cliarles  Tennyson  Turner 

Letty's  Globe  .....  Charles  Tennyson  Turticr 

The  Forest  Glade     .     .     .  Cliarles  Tennyson  Turner 

The  Gossamer-Light     .     .  CharUi  Tennysoti  Turner 


ISO 
15« 
152 
153 
'54 


156 
157 
158. 
'S? 

j6o 
161 
162 
163 
164 
165 
166 
167 
168 
169 
170 
171 

172 
173 
174 
175 


CONTENTS.  XXI 

PAGE 

176.  In   and   out  of   the  Pine- 

Wood     Charles  Tennyson  Turner   .  176 

177.  Irreparableness    ....  Elizabeth  Barrett  Broivning  177 

178.  Grief Elizabeth  Barrett  Browning  178 

179.  Finite  and  Infinite    .     .     .  Elizabeth  Barrett  Browning  179 

180.  Comfort Elizabeth  Barrett  Bro^uning  180 

181.  Futurity Elizabeth  Barrett  Browning  iSi 

182.  The  Prospect Elizabeth  Barrett  BroT-tming  182 

183.  I       thought      once     how 

Theocritus  had  sung    .  Elizabeth  Barrett  Browning  183 

184.  My  own  beloved,  who  hast 

lifted  me Elizabeth  Barrett  Browning  184 

185.  If  thou  must  love  me,  let 

it  be  for  nought  .     .     .  Elizabeth  Barrett  Browning  185 

186.  Is  it  indeed  so?    If  I  lay 

here  dead Elizabeth  Barrett  Browning  186 

187.  How  do  I  love  thee  ?    Let 

me  count  the  ways  .     .  Elizabeth  Barrett  Brozvning  187 

188.  Beloved,  thou  hast  brought 

me  many  flowers      .     .  Elizabeth  Barrett  Browning  188 

189.  If  I  might  choose,  where 

my  tired  limbs  shall  lie     John  Anster 189 

igo.  To  the  British  Oak   .     .     .     Charles  Crocker 190 

191.  Not    war,     nor    hurrying 

troops  from  plain  to  plain    Henry  Alford 191 

192.  The  Master's  Call     .     .     .     Henry  Alford 192 

193.  But  deck  the  board  ; — for 

hither  comes  a  band     .     Henry  Alford 193 

194.  To  Mary Henry  Alford 194 

195.  Lady,  I  bid  thee  to  a  sunny 

dome Arthur  Henry  Hallam   .     .  195 


co.\'tj:n  ts. 


J96.  Oh,    blessing   and   delight 

of  my  young  heart  .     .     Artltur  Henry  Hallam    . 

197.  To  the  Authoress  of  "  Our 

Village" Charles  KiHgsley    .     .     . 

198.  On      the      Ramparts     at 

Angouleme      ....     Frederick  Willium  Fnber 

199.  Our  thoughts  are  greater 

than      ourselves,      our 

dreams Frederick  Williavi  Fabcr 

too.  Like  a  musician  that  with 
j^  flying  finger     ....     IVilliain  Caldwell  Roscoe 

201.  Sad  soul,  whom  God,  re- 
suming what  He  gave  .     IVilliain  CaUhvcll  Roscoe 

201.  Solitude Tlwmas  Noel      .... 

203.  Time's  Waves Thomas  Noel      .... 

204.  The  Aconite Thomas  Noel     .... 

205.  Beauty  still  walketh  on  the 

earth  and  air  ....     Alexander  Smith   .     .     . 

206.  To  America Sydney  Dobell    .... 

207.  To  a  Friend   in   Bereave- 

ment   '■Sydney  Dobell    .... 


.96 


198 


20  T 
202 
203 
204 

205 
206 

207 

Julian  Fane 208 

Julian  Fane 209 

Julian  Fane 210 

George  Eliot 211 

George  Eliot 212 

Alice  Mary  Blunt  ....  213 

314.  To  a  Brooklet David  Gray 214 

215.  The  Luggie David  Gray 215 

216.  Sunset George  Morine 216 

Notes 219 


208.  Ad  Matrem,  1862 

209.  Ad  Matrem,  1S64 

210.  Ad  Matrem,  1870 

211.  Brother  and  .Sister 
312.  Brother  and  Sister 
213.  A  Disappointment 


CORN  not  the  Sonnet ;  Critie,  you  have  frowned. 
Mindless  of  its  just  honouis  ;  with  this  icey 
Shakespeare  unlocked  his  heart ;  the  inelodv 
Of  this  small  lute  gave  ease  to  PetrairKs  wound  ; 
A  thousand  times  this  pipe  did  Tasso  sound ; 
With  it  Cambens  soothed  an  exile's  grief; 
The  Sonnet  glittered  a  gay  myrtle-leaf 
Amid  the  cypress  with  which  Dante  crowned 
His  visionary  brozv  ;  a  gloivworm  lamp, 

It  cheered  mild  Spetiser,  called  from  Faery-land 
To  struggle  through  dark  ways  ;  and,  token  a  damp 

Fell  round  the  path  of  Milton,  in  his  hand 
The  Thing  became  a  trumpet ;  whence  he  blezo 
Soul-animating  strains — alas,  too  few ! 

William  Wordsworth. 


/ 


ENGLISH    SONNETS. 

/ 

EASTER     MORNING.  / 

OST  glorious  Lord  of  life  !  that,  on  this  day, 
Didst  make  thy  triumph  over  death  and  sin  ; 
And,  having  harrowed  hell,  didst  bring  away 
Captivity  thence  captive,  us  to  win  : 
This  joyous  day,  dear  Lord,  with  joy  begin  ; 
And  grant  that  we,  for  whom  Thou  diddest  die. 
Being  with  thy  dear  blood  clean  washed  from  sin, 
May  live  for  ever  in  felicity  : 
And  that  thy  love  we  weighing  worthily, 
May  likewise  love  Thee  for  the  same  again  ; 
And  for  thy  sake,  that  all  like  dear  didst  buy, 
With  love  may  one  another  entertain  ! 

So  let  us  love,  dear  Love,  like  as  we  ought ; 
Love  is  the  lesson  which  the  Lord  us  taught. 

Edmund  SPENSEji^r*' 


ENGLISH  SONNETS. 


I 

i 

i 


WILLING  BONDAGE. 


IKE  as  a  huntsman  after  weary  chase 
Seeing  the  game  from  him  escaped  away, 
Sits  down  to  rest  him  in  some  shady  place 
With  panting  hounds  beguiled  of  their  prey 
So,  after  long  pursuit  and  vain  assay, 
When  I  all  weary  had  the  chase  forsook, 
The  gentle  deer  returned  the  self-same  way 
Thinking  to  quench  her  thirst  at  the  next  brook  ; 
There  she,  beholding  me  with  milder  look, 
Sought  not  to  fly,  but  fearless  still  did  bide  ; 
Till  I  in  hand  her  yet  half  trembling  took, 
And  with  her  own  good-will  her  firmly  tied  ; — 
Strange  thing,  meseemed,  to  see  a  beast  so  wild 
So  goodly  won,  with  her  own  will  beguiled. 

Edmund  Spenser. 


£V  POETS  OF   THE  PAST. 


TRUE  BEAUTY. 

^EN  call  you  fair,  and  you  do  credit  it, 
For  that  yourself  you  daily  such  do  see  ; 
But  the  true  fair,  that  is  the  gentle  wit, 
And  virtuous  mind,  is  much  more  praised  of  me  : 
For  all  the  rest,  however  fair  it  be 

Shall  turn  to  nought,  and  lose  that  glorious  hue  ; 
But  only  that  is  permanent  and  free 
From  frail  corruption,  that  doth  flesh  ensue. 
That  is  true  beauty  ;  that  doth  argue  you 
To  be  divine,  and  born  of  heavenly  seed  ; 
Derived  from  that  fair  Spirit  from  whom  all  true 
And  perfect  beauty  did  at  first  proceed. 

He  only  fair,  and  what  He  fair  hath  made  ; 
All  other  fair,  like  flowers,  untimely  fade. 

Edmund  Spenser. 


E.\'GLlSIf  SONNETS. 


IKE  as  a  ship  that  through  the  ocean  wide, 
By  conduct  of  some  star,  doth  make  her  way, 
^     Whenas  a  storm  hath  dimmed  her  trusty  guide, 
Out  of  her  course  doth  wander  far  astray, — 
So  I,  whose  star,  that  wont  with  her  bright  ray 
Me  to  direct,  with  clouds  is  overcast. 
Do  wander  now  in  darkness  and  dismay, 
Through  hidden  perils  round  about  me  placed  : 
Yet  hope  I  well  that,  when  this  storm  is  past, 
My  Helike,  the  lodestar  of  my  life, 
Will  shine  again,  and  look  on  me  at  last, 
With  lovely  light  to  clear  my  cloudy  grief : 
Till  then  I  wander  careful,  comfortless. 
In  secret  sorrow  and  sad  i^ensiveness. 

Edmund  Spenser. 


£V  POETS  OF  THE  PAST. 


/ 


[jITH  how  sad  steps,  O  moon,  thou  chmb'st  the 
skies. 
How  silently,  and  with  how  wan  a  face  ! 
What !  may  it  be,  that  e'en  in  heavenly  place 
That  busy  Archer  his  sharp  arrow  tries  ? 
Sure  if  that  long  with  love  acquainted  eyes 
Can  judge  of  love,  thou  feel'st  a  lover's  case  ; 
I  read  it  in  thy  looks  ;  thy  languished  gi-ace 
To  me,  that  feel  the  like,  thy  state  descries. 
Then,  even  of  fellowship,  O  moon,  tell  me 
Is  constant  love  deemed  there  but  want  of  wit  ? 
Are  beauties  there  as  proud  as  here  they  be  ? 
Do  they  above  love  to  be  loved,  and  yet 

Those  lovers  scorn,  whom  that  love  doth  possess  ? 
Do  they  call  virtue  there — ungratefulness  ? 

Sir  Philip  Sidney,  jfi^ 

7 


ENGLISH  SON  SETS. 


/ 


AVING  this  day  my  horse,  my  hand,  my  lance 
Guided  so  well  that  I  obtained  the  prize, 
Both  by  the  judgment  of  the  English  eyes 
And  of  some  sent  from  that  sweet  enemy,  France  ; 
Horsemen  my  skill  in  horsemanship  advance  ; 
Townfolks  my  strength  ;  a  daintier  judge  applies 
His  praise  to  sleight,  which  from  good  use  doth  rise  ; 
Some  lucky  wits  impute  it  but  to  chance  : 
Others,  because  of  both  sides  I  do  take 
My  blood  from  them  who  did  excel  in  this, 
Think  Nature  me  a  man-at-arms  did  make. 
How  far  they  shot  awry  !  the  true  cause  is, 
Stella  looked  on  ;  and  from  her  heavenly  face 
Sent  forth  the  beams  which  made  so  fair  my  race. 
Sir  Philip  Sidney, 


BY  POETS  OF  THE  PAST. 


f|INCE  Nature's  works  be  good,  and  death  doth 
serve 
As  Nature's  work,  why  should  we  fear  to  die  ? 
Since  fear  is  vain  but  when  it  may  presei^ve, 
Why  should  we  fear  that  which  we  cannot  fly  ? 
Fear  is  more  pain  than  is  the  pain  it  fears, 
Disarming  human  minds  of  native  might ; 
While  each  conceit  an  ugly  figure  bears 
Which  were  not  evil,  well  viewed  in  reason's  light. 
Our  owly  eyes,  which  dimmed  with  passions  be, 
And  scarce  discern  the  dawn  of  coming  day, 
Let  them  be  cleared,  and  now  begin  to  see 
Our  life  is  but  a  step  in  dusty  way. 
Then  let  us  hold  the  bliss  of  peaceful  mind  ; 
Since  this  we  feel,  great  loss  we  cannot  find. 

Sir  Philip  Sidney. 


EXCLISJI  SOXNETS. 


A  VISION  UPON  THE  FAERY  QUEEN. 

ETHOUGIIT  I  saw  the  grave  where  Laura  lay, 
Within  that  Temple  where  the  vestal  flame 
Was  wont  to  burn  ;  and  passing  by  that  way 
To  see  that  buried  dust  of  living  fame, 
Whose  tomb  fair  Love  and  fairer  Virtue  kept. 
All  suddenly  I  saw  the  Faery  Queen  : 
At  whose  approach  the  soul  of  Petrarch  wept ; 
And  from  thenceforth  those  Graces  were  not  seen, 
For  they  this- Queen  attended  ;  in  whose  stead 
Oblivion  laid  him  down  on  Laura's  hearse. 
Ilereat  the  hardest  stones  were  seen  to  bleed, 
And  groans  of  buried  ghosts  the  heavens  did  pierce, 
Where  Homer's  spright  did  tremble  all  for  grief, 
And  cursed  the  access  of  that  celestial  thief. 

Sir  Walter  Raleigh. 


BV  POETS  OF   THE  PAST. 


THE  CONSTANCY  OF  LOVE.  /  ^ 


/ 


ERE  I  as  base  as  is  the  lowly  plain, 

And  you,  my  Love,  as  high  as  heaven  above. 
Yet  should  the  thoughts  of  me  your  humble 
swain 
Ascend  to  heaven  in  honour  of  my  Love. 
Were  I  as  high  as  heaven  above  the  plain, 

And  you,  my  Love,  as  humble  and  as  low 
As  are  the  deepest  bottoms  of  the  main, 

Wheresoe'er  you  were,  with  you  my  love  should  go. 
Were  you  the  earth,  dear  Love,  and  I  the  skies. 

My  love  should  shine  on  you  like  to  the  sun. 
And  look  upon  you  with  ten  thousand  eyes 

Till  heaven  waxed  blind  and  till  the  world  were  done. 
Wheresoe'er  I  am,  below  or  else  above  you, 
Wheresoe'er  you  are,  my  heart  shall  truly  love  you. 

Joshua  Sylvester.  . 


ENGLISH  SONNETS. 


FAVOUR. 


ADY  !  in  beauty  and  in  favour  rare, 
Of  favour,  not  of  due,  I  favour  crave : 
Nature  to  thee  beauty  and  favour  gave, 
Fair  then  thou  art,  and  favour  thou  may'st  spare. 
And  when  on  me  bestowed  your  favours  are. 
Less  favour  in  your  face  you  shall  not  have  : 
If  favour  then  a  wounded  soul  may  save, 
Of  murder's  guilt,  dear  lady,  then  beware. 
My  loss  of  life  a  million-fold  were  less 

Than  the  least  loss  should  unto  you  befall ; 
Yet  grant  this  gift :  which  gift  when  I  possess. 
Both  I  have  life,  and  you  no  loss  at  all : — 
For  by  your  favour  only  I  do  live  ; 
And  favour  you  may  well  both  keep  and  give. 

Henry  Constable. 


By  POETS  OF  THE  PAST. 


ITY  revising  my  poor  Love  to  feed, 

A  beggar  starved  for  want  of  help  he  lies. 
And  at  your  mouth,  the  door  of  Beauty,  cries 
That  thence  some  alms  of  sweet  grants  may  proceed. 
But  as  he  waiteth  for  some  alms-deed, 
A  cherry-tree  before  the  door  he  spies — 
"  O  dear!"  quoth  he,  "two  cherries  may  suffice, 
Two  only  life  may  save  in  this  my  need." 
But  beggars,  can  they  nought  but  cherries  eat  ? 
Pardon  my  Love,  he  is  a  goddess'  son, 
And  never  feedeth  but  on  dainty  meat. 
Else  need  he  not  to  pine  as  he  hath  done  : 
For  only  the  sweet  fruit  of  this  sweet  tree 
Can  give  food  to  my  Love,  and  life  to  me. 

Henry  Constable. 


EiXCLJSH  SONNETS. 


THE  LAST  CHANCE. 

INCE  there's  no  help,  come  let  us  kiss  and  part ; 
Nay,  I  have  done ;  you  get  no  more  of  me : 
And  I  am  glad,  yea,  glad  with  all  my  heart, 
That  llius  so  cleanly  I  myself  can  free ; 
Shake  hands  for  ever,  cancel  all  our  vows, 

And  when  we  meet  at  any  time  again, 
Be  it  not  seen  in  either  of  our  brows 

That  we  one  jot  of  former  love  retain. 
Now  at  the  last  gasp  of  Love's  latest  breath. 

When,  his  pulse  failing,  Passion  speechless  lies. 
When  Faith  is  kneeling  by  his  bed  of  death, 

And  Innocence  is  closing  up  his  eyes, 
Now,  if  thou  would'st,  when  all  have  given  him  over. 
From  death  to  life  thou  might'st  him  yet  recover. 

Michael  Drayton. 


y 


By  POETS  OF  THE  PAST. 


TO  THE  RIVER  ANKOR. 

LEAR  Ankor,  on  whose  silver-sanded  shore 
My  soul-shrined  Saint,  my  fair  Idea  lies, 
O  blessed  Brook,  whose  milk-white  swans  adore 
The  crystal  stream  refined  by  her  eyes, 
Where  sweet  myrrh-breathing  zephyr  in  the  spring 
Gently  distils  his  nectar-dropping  showers. 
Where  nightingales  in  Arden  sit  and  sing, 
Amongst  the  dainty  dew-impearled  flowers  ; 
Say  thus,  fair  Brook,  when  thou  shalt  see  thy  queen, 
Lo,  here  thy  shepherd  spent  his  wandering  years ; 
And  in  these  shades,  dear  nymph,  he  oft  hath  been ; 
And  here  to  thee  he  sacrificed  his  tears : — 
Fair  Arden,  thou  my  Tempe  art  alone  ; 
And  thou,  sweet  Ankor,  art  my  Helicon  ! 

Michael  Drayton. 


/ 


£A'GL/SH  SON,V£TS. 


TO  SLEEP. 

ARE-CHARMER  Sleep,  son  of  the  sable  night, 
Brother  to  death,  in  silent  darkness  born, 
Relieve  my  languish,  and  restore  the  light : 

With  dark  forgetting  of  my  care  return. 

And  let  the  day  be  time  enough  to  mourn 

The  shipwreck  of  my  ill -adventured  youth : 

Let  waking  eyes  suffice  to  wail  their  scorn. 

Without  the  torment  of  the  night's  untruth. 

Cease,  dreams,  the  images  of  day  desires, 

To  model  forth  the  passions  of  the  morrow  ; 

Never  let  rising  sun  approve  you  liars, 

To  add  more  grief  to  aggravate  my  sorrow  : 

Still  let  me  sleep,  embracing  clouds  in  vain. 

And  never  wake  to  feel  the  day's  disdain. 

Samuel  Daniel. 


BY  POETS  OF   THE  PAST. 


\ 


REMEMBRANCE. 


HEN  to  the  sessions  of  sweet  silent  thought 
I  summon  up  remembrance  of  things  past, 
I  sigh  the  lack  of  many  a  thing  I  sought. 
And  with  old  woes  new  wail  my  dear  time's  waste : 
Then  can  I  drown  an  eye  unused  to  flow, 
For  precious  friends  hid  in  death's  dateless  night. 
And  weep  afresh  Love's  long  since  cancell'd  woe, 
And  moan  the  expense  of  many  a  vanish 'd  sight : 
Then  can  I  grieve  at  grievances  foregone, 
And  heavily  from  woe  to  woe  tell  o'er 
The  sad  account  of  fore-bemoaned  moan, 
Which  I  new  pay  as  if  not  paid  before. 

But  if  the  while  I  think  on  thee,  dear  friend. 
All  losses  are  restored,  and  sorrows  end. 

William  Shakespeare. 


EXGLISH  SON. VETS. 


I 


SUNSHINE  AND  CLOUD. 

lULL  many  a  glorious  morning  have  I  seen 
Flatter  the  mountain-tops  with  sovereign  eye, 
Kissing  with  golden  face  the  meadows  green, 
Gilding  pale  streams  with  heavenly  alchemy ; 
Anon  permit  the  basest  clouds  to  ride 
With  ugly  rack  on  his  celestial  face. 
And  from  the  forlorn  world  his  visage  hide, 
Stealing  unseen  to  west  with  this  disgrace : 
Even  so  my  sun  one  early  mom  did  shine 
With  all-triumphant  splendour  on  my  brow ; 
But,  out,  alack !  he  was  but  one  hour  mine. 
The  region  cloud  hath  mask'd  him  from  me  now. 
Yet  him  for  this  my  love  no  whit  disdaineth  ; 
Suns  of  the  world  may  stain  when  heaven's  sun  staineth. 
William  Shakespeare. 


/ 


BV  POSTS  OF   THE  PAST. 


THE  TRUE  AND  THE  FALSE.  A 

,  HOW  much  more  doth  beauty  beauteous  seem, 
By  that  sweet  ornament  which  truth  doth  give  ! 
The  rose  looks  fair,  but  fairer  we  it  deem 


For  that  sweet  odour  which  doth  in  it  live  : 
The  canker-blooms  have  full  as  deep  a  dye 
As  the  perfumed  tincture  of  the  roses, 
Hang  on  such  thorns,  and  play  as  wantonly 
When  summer's  breath  their  masked  buds  discloses : 
But,  for  their  virtue  only  is  their  show, 
They  live  unwoo'd  and  unrespected  fade  ; 
Die  to  themselves.     Sweet  roses  do  not  so  ; 
Of  their  sweet  deaths  are  sweetest  odours  made : 
And  so  of  you,  beauteous  and  lovely  youth, 
When  that  shall  fade,  my  verse  distills  your  trutli. 
William  Shakespeare. 


y 


/£.\'GL1SJJ  SOX.VETS. 


THE  WORLD'S  WAY. 

IRED  with  all  these,  for  restful  death  I  cry,- 
As,  to  behold  desert  a  beggar  born, 
And  needy  nothing  trimm'd  in  jollity, 
And  purest  faith  unhappily  forsworn, 
And  gilded  honour  shamefully  misplaced, 
And  maiden  virtue  rudely  strumpeted, 
And  right  perfection  wrongfully  disgraced. 
And  strength  by  limping  sway  disabled, 
And  art  made  tongue-tied  by  authority. 
And  folly,  doctor-like,  controlling  skill, 
And  simple  truth  miscall'd  simplicity, 
And  captive  good  attending  captain  ill  : 

— Tired  with  all  these,  from  these  would  I  be  gone, 
Save  that,  to  die,  I  leave  my  love  alone. 

William  Shakespeare. 


I 


By  POETS  OF   THE   PAST. 


/ 


LIFE'S  AUTUMN. 

HAT  time  of  year  thou  mayst  in  me  behold 
When  yellow  leaves,  or  none,  or  few,  do  hang 
Upon  those  boughs  which  shake  against  the  cold, 
Bare  ruined  choirs,  where  late  the  sweet  bird  sang : 
In  me  thou  see'st  the  twilight  of  such  day 
As  after  sunset  fadeth  in  the  west. 
Which  by  and  by  black  night  doth  take  away, 
Death's  second  self,  that  seals  up  all  in  rest. 
In  me  thou  see'st  the  glowing  of  such  fire. 
That  on  the  ashes  of  his  youth  doth  lie. 
As  the  death-bed  whereon  it  must  expire. 
Consumed  with  that  which  it  was  nourish 'd  by : — 

This  thou  perceiv'st,  which  makes  thy  love  more  strong, 
To  love  that  well  which  thou  must  leave  ere  long. 

William  Shakespeare.  / 


EKGLISH  SONNETS. 


THE  TRIUMPH  OF  DEATH. 

O  longer  mourn  for  me  when  I  am  dead 
Than  you  shall  hear  the  surly  sullen  bell 
Give  warning  to  the  world  that  I  am  fled 
From  this  vile  world,  with  vilest  worms  to  dwell : 
Nay,  if  you  read  this  line,  remember  not 
The  hand  that  writ  it ;  for  I  love  you  so. 
That  I  in  your  sweet  thoughts  would  be  forgot, 
If  thinking  on  me  then  should  make  you  woe. 
O,  if.  I  say,  you  look  upon  this  verse 
When  I  perhaps  compounded  am  with  clay. 
Do  not  so  much  as  my  poor  name  rehearse, 
But  let  your  love  even  with  my  life  decay, — 
Lest  the  wise  world  should  look  into  your  moan. 
And  mock  you  with  me  after  I  am  gone. 

William  Shakespeark. 


BV  POETS  OF   THE  PAST. 


THE  GARDEN  OF  LOVE.  / 


ROM  you  have  I  been  absent  in  the  spring, 

When  proud-pied  April,  dressed  in  all  his  trim, 
J  Hath  put  a  spirit  of  youth  in  every  thing. 
That  heavy  Saturn  laughed  and  leaped  with  him. 
Yet  not  the  lays  of  birds,  nor  the  sweet  smell 
Of  different  flowers  in  odour  and  in  hue, 
Could  make  me  any  summer's  story  tell, 
Or  from  their  proud  lap  pluck  them  where  they  grew ; 
Nor  did  I  wonder  at  the  lily's  white. 
Nor  praise  the  deep  vermilion  in  the  rose ; 
They  were  but  sweet,  but  figures  of  delight, 
Drawn  after  you, — you  pattern  of  all  those. 
Yet  seem'd  it  winter  still,  and,  you  away. 
As  with  your  shadow  I  with  these  did  play. 

William  Shakespeare. 


ENGLISH  SONNETS. 


THE  FORWARD  VIOLET  THUS  DID 
I  CHIDE: 


WEET  thief,  whence  didst  thou  steal  thy  sweet 
that  smells, 
If  not  from  my  Love's  breath  ?  The  purple  pride 
Which  on  thy  soft  cheek  for  complexion  dwells 
In  my  Love's  veins  thou  hast  too  grossly  dyed. 
The  Lily  I  condemned  for  thy  hand, 
And  buds  of  Marjoram  had  stolen  thy  hair: 
The  Roses  fearfully  on  thorns  did  stand, 
One  blushing  shame,  another  white  despair  : 
A  third,  nor  red  nor  white,  had  stolen  of  both 
And  to  his  robbery  had  annexed  thy  breath ; 
But,  for  his  theft,  in  pride  of  all  his  growth 
A  vengeful  canker  eat  him  up  to  death. 
More  flowers  I  noted,  yet  I  none  could  see 
But  sweet  or  colour  it  had  stolen  from  thee. 

William  Shakespeare. 


BV  POETS  OF   THE  PAST. 


HOPE  AGAINST  HOPE. 


,  CALL  not  me  to  justify  the  wrong 
That  thy  unkindness  lays  upon  my  heart ; 
Wound  me  not  with  thine  eye,  but  with  thy 
tongue ; 
Use  power  with  power,  and  slay  me  not  by  art. 
Tell  me  thou  lov'st  elsewhere ;  but  in  my  sight, 
Dear  heart,  forbear  to  glance  thine  eye  aside  : 
What  need'st  thou  wound  with  cunning,  when  thy  might 
Is  more  than  my  o'er-pressed  defence  can  bide  ? 
Let  me  excuse  thee  :  ah !  my  love  well  knows 
Her  pretty  looks  have  been  mine  enemies  ; 
And  therefore  from  my  face  she  turns  my  foes. 
That  they  elsewhere  might  dart  their  injuries : 
Yet  do  not  so ;  but  since  I  am  near  slain. 
Kill  me  outright  with  looks,  and  rid  my  pain. 

William  Shakesi'eare. 


ENGLISH  SONNETS. 


THE  BEAUTY  OF  BEAUTIES. 

i|HEN  in  the  chronicle  of  wasted  time 
I  see  descriptions  of  the  fairest  wights, 
And  beauty  making  beautiful  old  rhyme 
In  praise  of  ladies  dead  and  lovely  knights ; 
Then,  in  the  blazon  of  sweet  beauty's  best, 
Of  hand,  of  foot,  of  lip,  of  eye,  of  brow, 
I  see  their  antique  pen  would  have  expressed 
Even  such  a  beauty  as  you  master  now. 
So  all  their  praises  are  but  prophecies 
Of  this  our  time,  all  you  prefiguring ; 
And,  for  they  looked  but  with  divining  eyes, 
They  had  not  skill  enough  your  worth  to  sing : 
For  we,  which  now  behold  these  present  days. 
Have  eyes  to  wondjer,  but  lack  tongues  to  praise. 

William  Shakespeare. 


/ 


£V  POETS  OF  THE  PAST. 


i^j^f 


TRUE  LOVE.  / 

ET  me  not  to  the  marriage  of  true  minds 
Admit  impediments.     Love  is  not  love 
Which  alters  when  it  alteration  finds, 
Or  bends  with  the  remover  to  remove : 
O,  no  !  it  is  an  ever-fixed  mark, 
That  looks  on  tempests  and  is  never  shaken ; 
It  is  the  star  to  every  wandering  bark, 
Whose  worth's  unknown,  although  his  height  be  taken. 
Love's  not  Time's  fool,  though  rosy  lips  and  cheeks 
Within  his  bending  sickle's  compass  come ; 
Love  alters  not  with  his  brief  hours  and  weeks, 
But  bears  it  out  even  to  the  edge  of  doom. 
If  this  be  error  and  upon  me  proved, 
I  never  writ,  nor  no  man  ever  loved. 

William  Shakespeare, 


a6  ENGLISH  SONNETS. 


A  PICTURE. 

10  !  as  a  careful  housewife  runs  to  catch 

One  of  her  feathered  creatures  broke  away, 
y  Sets  clown  her  babe,  and  makes  all  swift  despatch 
In  pursuit  of  the  thing  she  would  have  stay  ; 
Whilst  her  neglected  child  holds  her  in  chase, 
Cries  to  catch  her  whose  busy  care  is  bent 
To  follow  that  which  flies  before  her  face, 
Not  prizing  her  poor  infant's  discontent ; 
So  runn'st  thou  after  that  which  flies  from  thee. 
Whilst  I,  thy  babe,  chase  thee  afar  behind ; 
But  if  thou  catch  thy  hope,  turn  back  to  me, 
And  play  the  mother's  part,  kiss  me,  be  kind  : 
So  will  I  pray  that  thou  niayst  have  thy  '  Will,' 
If  thou  turn  back,  and  my  loud  crying  still. 

William  Shakespeare. 
\ 


BY  POETS  OF  THE  PAST. 


SOUL  AND  BODY. 

^OOR  soul,  the  centre  of  my  sinful  earth, 

Fooled  by  these  rebel  powers  that  thee  array, 
Why  dost  thou  pine  within  and  suffer  dearth, 
Painting  thy  outward  walls  so  costly  gay? 
Why  so  large  cost,  having  so  short  a  lease, 
Dost  thou  upon  thy  fading  mansion  spend  ? 
Shall  worms,  inheritors  of  this  excess. 
Eat  up  thy  charge?  is  this  thy  body's  end? 
Then,  Soul,  live  thou  upon  thy  servant's  loss. 
And  let  that  pine  to  aggravate  thy  store ; 
Buy  terms  divine  in  selling  hours  of  dross ; 
\  Within  be  fed,  without  be  rich  no  more : 

So  shalt  thou  feed  on  Death,  that  feeds  on  men. 
And  Death  once  dead,  there's  no  more  dying  then. 
William  Shakespeare. 


/ 


c/ 


ENGLISH  SONNETS. 


\ 


CONTENT. 

H,  sweet  Content,  where  is  thy  mild  abode  ? 
Is  it  with  shepherds  and  light-hearted  swains 
Which  sing  upon  the  downs  and  pipe  abroad, 
Tending  their  flocks  and  cattle  on  the  plains? 
Ah,  sweet  Content,  where  dost  thou  safely  rest? 
In  heaven,  with  Angels  which  the  praises  sing 
Of  Him  that  made  and  rules  at  his  behest 
The  minds  and  hearts  of  every  living  thing? 
Ah,  sweet  Content,  where  doth  thine  harbour  hold  ? 
Is  it  in  churches  with  religious  men 
Which  please  the  gods  with  prayers  manifold, 
And  in  their  studies  meditate  it  then  ? 
Whether  thou  dost  in  heaven  or  earth  appear, 
Be  where  thou  wilt,  thou  wilt  not  harbour  here. 

Barnabe  Barnes. 


BV  POETS  OF   THE  PAST. 


THE  TALENT. 

]RACIOUS,  Divine,  and  most  Omnipotent ! 
Receive  Thy  servant's  Talent  in  good  part, 
Who  hid  it  not,  but  vifilling  did  convert 
It  to  best  use  he  could,  when  it  was  lent : 
The  sum — though  slender,  yet  not  all  misspent — 
Receive,  dear  God  of  giace  !  from  cheerful  heart 
Of  him  that  knows  how  merciful  Thou  art. 
And  with  what  grace  to  contrite  sinners  bent. 
I  know  my  fault,  I  did  not  as  I  should ; 
My  sinful  flesh  against  my  soul  rebell'd  ; 
But  since  I  did  endeavour  what  I  could, 
Let  not  my  little  nothing  be  withheld 

From  Thy  rich  treasuries  of  endless  grace ; 
But  (for  Thy  sake)  let  it  procure  a  place. 

Barnabe  Barnes. 


ENGLISH  SONNETS. 


TO  DEATH. 

f^^^^JjEATH,  be  not  proud,  though  some  have  called 

I&^^^l     Mighty  and  dreadful,  for  thou  art  not  so ; 
For  those,  whom  thou  think'st  thou  dost  overthrow, 
s 

\  Die  not,  poor  Death ;  nor  yet  canst  thou  kill  me. 

>      From  rest  and  sleep,  which  but  thy  pictures  be, 

Much  pleasure;  then  from  thee  much  more  must  fiow  ; 

And  soonest  our  best  men  with  thee  do  go. 

Rest  of  their  bones,  and  souls'  delivery. 
Thou'rt  slave  to  fate,  chance,  kings,  and  desperate  men, 

And  dost  with  poison,  war,  and  sickness  dwell, 
j         And  poppy  or  charms  can  make  us  sleep  as  well, 
{      And  better  than  thy  stroke.     Why  swell'st  thou  then  ? 
!  One  short  sleep  past,  we  wake  eternally  ; 

And  death  shall  be  no  more — Death,  thou  shalt  die. 

John  Donne.     / 


BV  POETS  OF   THE  PAST. 


MARY  MAGDALEN. 

HESE  Eyes  (dear  Lord)  once  brandons'  of 
desire, 
Frail  scouts  betraying  what  they  had  to  keep, 
Which  their  own  heart,  then  others  set  on  fire. 
Their  traitrous  black  before  Thee  here  out-weep  : 
These  Locks,  of  blushing  deeds  the  fair  attire. 

Smooth-frizzled  waves,  sad  shelves  which  shadow  deep, 
Soul-stinging  serpents  in  gilt  curls  which  creep, 
To  touch  Thy  sacred  feet  do  now  aspire. 
In  seas  of  Care  behold  a  sinking  Bark, 

By  winds  of  sharp  Remorse  unto  Thee  driven, 
O  let  me  not  exposed  be  ruin's  mark  ! 
My  faults  confest, — Lord,  say  they  are  forgiven." 
Thus  sighed  to  Jesus  the  Bethanian  fair. 
His  tear-wet  feet  still  drying  with  her  hair. 

William  Drummond. 

1  Torches. 


EXGL/S/f  SO.V.VETS. 


HUMAN  FRAILTY. 


ClOOD  that  never  satisfies  the  mind, 
A  beauty  fading  like  the  April  flowers, 
A  sweet  with  floods  of  gall  that  runs  combined. 
A  pleasure  passing  ere  in  thought  made  ours, 
A  honour  that  more  fickle  is  than  wind, 
A  glory  at  opinion's  frown  that  lowers, 
A  treasury  which  bankrupt  time  devours, 
A  knowledge  than  grave  ignorance  more  blind, 
A  vain  delight  our  equals  to  command, 
A  style  of  greatness,  in  effect  a  dream, 
A  fabulous  thought  of  holding  sea  and  land, 
A  servile  lot,  decked  with  a  pompous  name, 
Are  the  strange  ends  we  toil  for  here  below. 
Till  wisest  death  makes  us  our  errors  know. 

William  Drummond. 


BV  POETS  OF   THE  PAST. 


WEET  Spring,  thou  tum'st  with  all  thy  goodly 
train, 
Thy  head  with  flames,  thy  mantle  bright  with 
flowers  ; 
The  zephyrs  curl  the  green  locks  of  the  plain, 
The  clouds  for  joy  in  pearls  weep  down  their  showers  : 
<  Thou  tum'st,  sweet  youth ;  but  ah !  my  pleasant  hours 
i  And  happy  days  with  thee  come  not  again  ! 
I  Tlie  sad  memorials  only  of  my  pain 
;  Do  with  thee  turn,  which  turn  my  sweets  to  sours  : 
'  Thou  art  the  same  which  still  thou  wast  before, 
Delicious,  lusty,  amiable,  fair ; 

1  But  she,  whose  breath  embalmed  thy  wholesome  air, 
I  Is  gone  ;  nor  gold,  nor  gems  her  can  restore. 
j      Neglected  Virtue,  seasons  go  and  come. 
While  thine,  forgot,  lie  closed  in  a  tomb. 

William  Drummond. 

D 


ENGLISH  SONNETS. 


BEFORE  A  POE:^!  OF  IRENE. 

[jOURN  not,  fair  Greece,  the  ruin  of  thy  kings. 
Thy  temples  razed,  thy  forts  with  flames  de- 
voured, 

Thy  champions  slain,  thy  virgins  pure  deflowered, 
Nor  all  those  griefs  which  stem  Bellona  brings : 
But  mourn,  fair  Greece,  mourn  that  that  sacred  band 
Which  made  thee  once  so  famous  by  their  songs. 
Forced  by  outrageous  fate,  have  left  thy  land, 
And  left  thee  scarce  a  voice  to  plain  thy  wrongs  ! 
Mourn  that  those  climates  which  to  thee  appear 
Beyond  both  Phoebus  and  his  sister's  ways. 
To  save  thy  deeds  from  death  must  lend  thee  lays. 
And  such  as  from  Musseus  thou  didst  hear ; 
For  now  Irene  hath  attained  such  fame, 
That  Hero's  ghost  doth  weep  to  hear  her  name. 

William  Drummond. 


BV  POETS  OF  THE  PAST. 


NO  TRUST  IN  TIME. 

'  OOK  how  the  flower  which  lingeringly  doth  fade, 
The  morning's  darling  late,  the  summer's 
queen, 

Spoiled  of  that  juice  which  kept  it  fresh  and  green, 
As  high  as  it  did  raise,  bows  low  the  head : 
Right  so  my  life,  contentments  being  dead, 
Or  in  their  contraries  but  only  seen. 
With  swifter  speed  declines  than  erst  it  spread, 
And  blasted,  scarce  now  shows  what  it  hath  been. 
As  doth  the  pilgrim  therefore,  whom  the  night 
By  darkness  would  imprison  on  his  way, 
Think  on  thy  home,  my  soul,  and  think  aright 
(.)f  what  yet  rests  thee  of  life's  wasting  day; 
Thy  sun  posts  westward,  passed  is  thy  morn. 
And  twice  it  is  not  given  thee  to  be  born. 

William  Drummond. 


/ 


36  EXGLISH  SONNETS. 


L 


(E^|LEXIS,  here  she  stayed  ;  among  these  pines, 
Sweet  hermitress,  she  did  alone  repair ; 
Here  did  she  spread  the  treasure  of  her  hair, 
More  rich  than  that  brought  from  the  Colchian  mines  ; 
She  sat  her  by  these  musked  eglantines — 
The  happy  place  the  print  seems  yet  to  bear ; 
Her  voice  did  sweeten  here  thy  sugared  lines, 
To  which  winds,  trees,  beasts,  birds,  did  lend  an  ear  ; 
Me  here  she  first  perceived,  and  here  a  morn 
Of  bright  carnations  did  o'erspread  her  face  ; 
Here  did  she  sigh,  here  first  my  hopes  were  born, 
And  I  first  got  a  pledge  of  promised  grace ; 
But  ah  !  what  served  it  to  be  happy  so 
Since  passed  pleasures  double  but  new  woe  ? 

William  Drummond. 


£y  POETS  OF   THE  PAST. 


jjRUST  not,  sweet  soul,  those  curled  waves  of  gold 
With  gentle  tides  that  on  your  temples  flow  ; 
Nor  temples  spread  with  flakes  of  virgin  snow, 
Nor  snow  of  cheeks  with  Tyrian  grain  enrolled  : 
Trust  not  those  shining  lights  which  wrought  my  woe, 
When  first  I  did  their  burning  rays  behold ; 
Nor  voice,  whose  sounds  more  strange  effects  do  show 
Than  of  the  Thracian  harper  have  been  told  : 
Look  to  this  dying  lily,  fading  rose, 

Dark  hyacinth,  of  late  whose  blushing  beams 
Made  all  the  neighbouring  herbs  and  grass  rejoice, 
And  think  how  little  is  'twixt  life's  extremes : 
The  cruel  tyrant  that  did  kill  those  flowers 
Shall  once,  ay  me !  not  spare  that  spring  of  yours. 

William  Drummond. 


318  ENGLISH  SOXA'ETS. 


OWN  in  a  valley,  by  a  forest's  side. 
Near  where  the  crj-stal  Thames  rolls  on  her 
waves, 

I  saw  a  mushroom  stand  in  haughty  pride. 
As  if  the  lilies  grew  to  be  his  slaves. 
The  gentle  daisy,  with  her  silver  crown, 
Worn  in  the  breast  of  many  a  shepherd's  lass. 
The  humble  violet,  that  lowly  down 
Salutes  the  gay  nymphs  as  they  trimly  pass,  — 
These,  with  a  many  more,  methought  complained 
That  Nature  should  those  needless  things  produce. 
Which  not  alone  the  sun  from  others  gained, 
But  turn  it  wholly  to  their  proper  use. 

I  could  not  choose  but  giieve  that  Nature  made 
So  glorious  flowers  to  live  in  such  a  shade. 

William  Browne. 


BV  POETS  OF  THE  PAST. 


ROSE,  as  fair  as  ever  saw  tne  North, 
Grew  in  a  little  garden  all  alone ; 
A  sweeter  flower  did  Nature  ne'er  put  forth, 
Nor  fairer  garden  yet  was  ever  known  : 
The  maidens  danced  about  it  morn  and  noon, 
And  learned  bards  of  it  their  ditties  made ; 
The  nimble  fairies,  by  the  pale-faced  moon, 
Watered  the  root,  and  kissed  her  pretty  shade. 
But,  welladay  !  the  gardener  careless  grew ; 
The  maids  and  fairies  both  were  kept  away, 
And  in  a  drought  the  caterpillars  threw 
Themselves  upon  the  bud  and  every  spray. 

God  shield  the  stock  !  if  heaven  send  no  supplies, 
The  fairest  blossom  of  the  garden  dies. 

William  Browne. 


ENGLISH  SONNETS. 


SING  ofbiooks,  of  blossoms,  birds,  and  bowers, 
Of  April,  May,  of  June,  and  July-flowers; 
I  sing  of  May-poles,  hock-carts,  wassails,  wakes, 
Of  bride-grooms,  brides,  and  of  their  bridal-cakes : 
I  write  of  Youth,  of  Love ; — and  have  access 
By  these,  to  sing  of  cleanly  wantonness ; 
I  sing  of  dews,  of  rains,  and,  piece  by  piece, 
Of  balm,  of  oil,  of  spice,  and  ambergris. 
I  sing  of  times  trans-shifting  ;  and  I  write 
How  roses  first  came  red  and  lilies  white  : 
I  write  of  groves,  of  twilights,  and  I  sing 
The  court  of  Mab,  and  of  the  Fairy  King : 
I  write  of  Hell ;  I  sing,  and  ever  shall , 
Of  Heaven, — and  hope  to  have  it  after  all. 

Robert  Herrick. 


BV  rOETS  OF  THE  PAST. 


lOU  say  I  love  not,  'cause  I  do  not  play 
Still  with  your  curls,  and  kiss  the  time  away : 
You  blame  me,  too,  because  I  can't  devise 
Some  sport,  to  please  those  babies  in  your  eyes ; — 
By  Love's  religion,  I  must  here  confess  it, 
The  most  I  love,  when  I  the  least  express  it : 
Small  griefs  find  tongues;  full  casks  are  ever  found 
To  give,  if  any,  yet  but  little  sound  : 
Deep  waters  noiseless  are  ;  and  this  we  know. 
That  chiding  streams  betray  small  depth  below : 
So  when  love  speechless  is,  she  doth  express 
A  depth  in  love,  and  that  depth  bottomless. 

Now  since  my  love  is  tongueless,  know  me  such 
Who  speak  but  little,  'cause  I  love  so  much. 

Robert  Herrick. 


E.VCL/SH  SOXiVETS. 


I 


LOVE. 


MMORTAL  Love,  author  of  this  great  frame, 
Sprung  from  that  beauty  which  can  never  fade ; 
I  low  hath  man  parcelled  out  thy  glorious  name, 
And  thrown  it  on  that  dust  which  thou  hast  made, 
While  mortal  love  doth  all  the  title  gain ! 
Which  siding  with  Invention,  they  together 
Bear  all  the  sway,  possessing  heart  and  brain — 
Thy  workmanship — and  give  thee  share  in  neither. 
Wit  fancies  beauty,  beauty  raiseth  wit ; 

The  world  is  theirs  ;  they  two  play  out  the  game. 
Thou  standing  by :  and  though  thy  glorious  name 
Wrought  our  deliverance  from  th'  infernal  pit, 
Who  sings  thy  praise  ?    Only  a  scarf  or  glove 
Doth  warm  our  hands,  and  make  them  write  of  love. 

George  Herbert. 


BV  POETS  OF  THE  PAST. 


r 


ORD,  with  what  care  hast  Thou  begirt  us  round  ! 
Parents  first  season  us  ;  then  schoolmasters 
Deliver  us  to  laws  ;  they  send  us  bound 
To  rules  of  reason,  holy  messengers, 
Pulpits  and  Sundays,  sorrow  dogging  sin, 

Afflictions  sorted,  anguish  of  all  sizes. 
Fine  nets  and  stratagems  to  catch  us  in. 
Bibles  laid  open,  millions  of  surprises. 
Blessings  beforehand,  ties  of  gratefulness. 
The  sound  of  glory  ringing  in  our  ears ; 
Without,  our  shame  ;  within,  our  consciences  ; 

Angels  and  grace,  eternal  hopes  and  fears. 
Yet  all  these  fences  and  their  whole  array 
One  cunning  bosom-sin  blows  quite  away. 

George  Herbert.     . 


ENGLISH  SONNETS. 


Y  God,  where  is  that  ancient  heat  towards  Thee 
Wherewith  whole  shoals  of  martyrs  once  did 
burn, 

Besides  their  other  flames  ?    Doth  poetry 
Wear  Venus'  livery, — only  serve  /ler  turn? 
Why  are  not  sonnets  made  of  Thee,  and  lays 
Upon  thine  altar  burnt?    Cannot  thy  love 
Heighten  a  spirit  to  sound  out  thy  praise 
As  well  as  any  she  ?    Cannot  thy  Dove 
Outstrip  their  Cupid  easily  in  flight  ? 

Or,  since  thy  ways  are  deep,  and  still  the  same, 
Will  not  a  verse  run  smooth  that  bears  thy  Name  ? 
Why  doth  that  fire,  which  by  thy  power  and  might 
Each  breast  does  feel,  no  braver  fuel  choose 
Than  that  which  one  day  worms  may  chance  refuse  ? 

George  Herbert. 


BV  POETS  OF   THE  PAST. 


ON  HIS  BLINDNESS. 


/ 


HEN  I  consider  how  my  light  is  spent 

Ere  half  my  days  in  this  dark  world  and  wide, 
And  that  one  talent,  which  is  death  to  hide, 
T.ixlged  with  me  useless,  though  my  soul  more  bent 
To  serve  therewith  my  Maker,  and  present 
My  true  account,  lest  He,  returning,  chide  ; — 
"  Doth  God  exact  day-labour,  light  denied?" 
I  fondly  ask.     But  Patience,  to  prevent 
That  murmur,  soon  replies,  "  God  doth  not  need 
Either  man's  works  or  his  own  gifts.     "Who  best 
Bear  his  mild  yoke,  they  serve  him  best.     His  state 
I  Is  kingly;  thousands  at  his  bidding  speed, 

And  post  o'er  land  and  ocean  without  rest : — 
They  also  serve  who  only  stand  and  wait." 

John  Milton. 

/ 


46  ENGLISH  SONNETS. 


]ADY,  that  in  the  prime  of  earliest  youth 
Wisely  hast  shunned  the  broad  way  and  the 
green, 

And  with  those  few  art  eminently  seen 
That  labour  up  the  hill  of  heavenly  truth, 
The  better  part  with  Mary  and  with  Ruth 
Chosen  thou  hast ;  and  they  that  overween, 
And  at  thy  growing  virtues  fret  their  spleen, 
No  anger  find  in  thee,  but  pity  and  ruth. 
Thy  care  is  fixed,  and  zealously  attends 

To  fill  thy  odorous  lamp  with  deeds  of  light, 
And  hope  that  reaps  not  shame.     Therefore  be  sure 
Thou,  when  the  Bridegroom  vwth  his  feastful  friends 
Passes  to  bliss  at  the  mid-hour  of  night, 
Hast  gained  thy  entrance,  Virgin  wise  and  pure. 

John  Milton. 


BV  POETS  OF   THE  PAST. 


THE  NIGHTINGALE. 

NIGHTINGALE,  that  on  yon  bloomy  spray 
Warblest  at  eve,  when  all  the  woods  are  still, 
Thou  with  fresh  hope  the  lover's  heart  dost  fill, 
While  the  jolly  hours  lead  on  propitious  May  ; 
Thy  liquid  notes  that  close  the  eye  of  day. 
First  heard  before  the  shallow  cuckoo's  bill. 
Portend  success  in  love  ;  O,  if  Jove's  will 
Have  linked  that  amorous  power  to  thy  soft  lay, 

Now  timely  sing,  ere  the  rude  bird  of  hate 
Foretell  my  hopeless  doom  in  some  grove  nigh ; 

As  thou  from  year  to  year  hast  sung  too  late 
For  my  relief,  yet  hadst  no  reason  why : 

Whether  the  Muse  or  Love  call  thee  his  mate, 
Both  them  I  serve,  and  of  their  train  am  I. 

John  Milton. 


/ 


ENGLISH  SONNETS. 


ON  THE  LATE  MASSACRE  IN  PIEDMONT. 

]VEXGE,  O  Lord,  thy  slaughtered  saints,  whose 
bones 
Lie  scattered  on  the  Alpine  mountains  cold  ; 
Even  them  who  kept  thy  truth  so  pure  of  old, 
When  all  our  fathers  worshipped  stocks  and  stones, 
Forget  not :  in  thy  book  record  their  groans 
Who  were  thy  sheep,  and  in  their  ancient  fold 
Slain  by  the  bloody  Piemontese,  that  rolled 
Mother  with  infant  down  the  rocks.     Their  moans 
The  vales  redoubled  to  the  hills,  and  they 

To  heaven.     Their  martyred  blood  and  ashes  sow 
O'er  all  the  Italian  fields,  where  still  doth  sway 
The  triple  tyrant ;  that  from  these  may  grow 
A  hundred-fold,  who,  having  learnt  thy  way, 
Early  may  fly  the  Babylonian  woe. 

John  Milton. 
// 


/ 


BY  POETS  OF  THE  PAST. 


AWRENCE,  of  virtuous  father  virtuous  son, 
Now  that  the  fields  are  dank,  and  ways  are 


mire. 


Where  shall  we  sometimes  meet,  and  by  the  fire 
Help  waste  a  sullen  day,  what  may  be  won 
From  the  hard  season  gaining  ?    Time  will  run 

On  smoother,  till  Favonius  re-inspire 

The  frozen  earth,  and  clothe  in  fresh  attire 
The  lily  and  rose,  that  neither  sowed  nor  spun. 
What  neat  repast  shall  feast  us,  light  and  choice, 

Of  Attic  taste,  with  vvdne,  whence  we  may  rise 
To  hear  the  lute  well  touched,  or  artful  voice 
Warble  immortal  notes  and  Tuscan  air  ? 
He  who  of  those  delights  can  judge,  and  spare 

To  interpose  them  oft,  is  not  unwise. 

John  Milton. 


ENGLISH  SONNETS. 


WHEN  THE  ASSAULT  WAS  INTENDED  TO 
THE  CITY  (Nov.,  1642). 


APTAIN  or  Colonel,  or  Knight  in  Arms, 
Whose  chance  on  these  defenceless  doors  may 
seize. 

If  deed  of  honour  did  thee  ever  please. 
Guard  them,  and  him  within  protect  from  harms  : 
He  can  requite  thee,  for  he  knows  the  charms 
That  call  fame  on  such  gentle  acts  as  these ; 
And  he  can  spread  thy  name  o'er  land  and  seas. 
Whatever  clime  the  sun's  bright  circle  warms. 
Lift  not  thy  spear  against  the  Muses'  bower  : 

The  great  Emathian  conqueror  bid  spare 
The  house  of  Pindarus,  when  temple  and  tower 

Went  to  the  ground  ;  and  the  repeated  air 
Of  sad  Electra's  poet  had  the  power 

To  save  the  Athenian  walls  from  ruin  bare. 

John  Milton.  V 

/ 


BV  POETS  OF   THE  PAST. 


ON   THE   RELIGIOUS   MEMORY  OF 

MRS.  CATHERINE  THOMSON.  / 


HEN  Faith  and  Love,  which  parted  from  thee 
never, 
Had  ripened  thy  just  soul  to  dwell  with  God, 


Meekly  thou  didst  resign  this  earthly  load 

Of  death,  called  life,  which  us  from  life  doth  sever. 

Thy  works,  and  alms,  and  all  thy  good  endeavour. 
Stayed  not  behind,  nor  in  the  grave  were  trod ; 
But,  as  Faith  pointed  with  her  golden  rod, 
Followed  thee  up  to  joy  and  bliss  for  ever. 

Love  led  them  on  ;  and  Faith,  who  knew  them  best. 
Thy  handmaids,  clad  them  o'er  with  purple  beams 
And  azure  wings,  that  up  they  flew  so  drest. 

And  spake  the  truth  of  thee  on  glorious  themes 

Before  the  Judge ;  who  thenceforth  bid  thee  rest, 

And  drink  thy  fill  of  pure  immortal  streams. 
«...,,,...,.. -,^_^       ■- .-.-~~.    jqjjj^  Milton. 


ENGLISH  SONNETS. 


THE  MEANING  OF  LIFE. 


HEN  I  behold  thee,  blameless  Williamson, 
Wrecked  like  an  infant  on  a  savage  shore, 
While  others  round  on  borrowed  pinions  soar, 
My  busy  fancy  calls  thy  thread  mis-spun  : 
Till  Faith  instructs  me  the  deceit  to  shun 

While  thus  she  speaks,  '  Those  wings  that  from  the  store 
Of  virtue  were  not  lent,  howe'er  they  bore 
In  this  gross  air,  will  melt  when  near  the  sun. 
The  truly  ambitious  wait  for  Nature's  time, 
Content  by  certain,  though  by  slow  degrees 
To  mount  above  the  reach  of  vulgar  flight ; 
Nor  is  that  man  confined  to  this  low  clime. 
Who  but  the  extremest  skirts  of  glory  sees 
And  hears  celestial  echoes  with  delight.' 

Benjamin  Stillingfleet. 


BV  POETS  OF  THE  PAST. 


TO  DAMPIER. 

HRICE  worthy  guardian  of  that  sacred  spring-, 
That  erst  with  copious  streams  enriched  this 

land, 

When  Csesar  taught  our  nobles  to  command, 
Tully  to  speak,  Mseonides  to  sing ; 
Till  Fashion,  stealing  with  unheeded  wing 
Into  this  realm,  with  touch  of  foreign  hand. 
Our  girls  emboldened,  and  our  boys  unmanned, 
And  drew  all  ages  to  her  magic  ring:  — 
Yet  shalt  not  thou  be  backward  in  thy  sphere 
To  thwart  a  sickly  world  ;  the  sceptre  given 
Thou  know'st  to  wield,  and  force  the  noble  youth 
To  merit  titles  they  were  bom  to  bear : 

Thou  know'st  that  every  sceptre  is  from  Heaven 
That  guides  mankind  to  virtue  and  to  truth. 

Benjamin  Stillingfleet. 


e::glish  sonkets. 


ON   THE   DEATH   OF   RICHARD   WEST. 


N  vain  to  me  the  smiling  mornings  shine, 
And  reddening  Phoebus  lifts  his  golden  fire  ; 
The  birds  in  vain  their  amorous  descant  join, 

Or  cheerful  fields  resume  their  green  attire  : 

These  ears,  alas  !  for  other  notes  repine, 

A  different  object  do  these  eyes  require  ; 

My  lonely  anguish  melts  no  heart  but  mine, 

And  in  my  breast  the  imperfect  joys  expire  ; 

Yet  morning  smiles  the  busy  race  to  cheer, 

And  new-born  pleasure  brings  to  happier  men  ; 

The  fields  to  all  their  wonted  tribute  bear. 

To  warm  their  little  loves  the  birds  complain  ; 

I  fruitless  mourn  to  him  that  cannot  hear  ; 

And  weep  the  more,  because  I  weep  in  vain. 

Thomas  Gray. 


BV  POETS  OF  THE  PAST. 


ANNIVERSARY. 

PLAINTIVE  sonnet  flowed  from  Milton's  pen 
When  Time  had  stolen  his  three  and  twentieth 
year  : 

Say  shall  not  I  then  shed  one  tuneful  tear 
Robbed  by  the  thief  of  three-score  years  and  ten  ? 
No  !  for  the  foes  of  all  life-lengthened  men, 
Trouble  and  toil,  approach  not  yet  too  near  ; 
Reason,  meanwhile,  and  health,  and  memory  dear. 
Hold  unimpaired  their  weak,  yet  wonted  reign  : 
Still  round  my  sheltered  lawn  I  pleased  can  stray  ; 
Still  trace  my  sylvan  blessings  to  their  spring  : 
Being  of  Beings  !  yes,  that  silent  lay, 
Which  musing  Gratitude  delights  to  sing. 

Still  to  thy  sapphire  throne  shall  Faith  convey, 
And  Hope,  the  cherub  of  unwearied  wing. 

William  Mason. 


/ 


ENGL  ISH  SOXNETS. 


ON   BATHING. 


fMtki' 


HEN  late  the  trees  were  stript  by  winter  pale, 
Young  Health,  a  dryad-maid  in  vesture  green. 
Or  like  the  forest's  silver-quiver'd  queen, 
On  airy  uplands  met  the  piercing  gale  ; 
And,  ere  its  earliest  echo  shook  the  vale. 
Watching  the  hunter's  joyous  horn  was  seen. 
But  since,  gay-throned  in  fiery  chariot  sheen. 
Summer  has  smote  each  daisy-dappled  dale  ; 
She  to  the  caves  retires,  high-arched  beneath 
The  fount  that  laves  proud  Isis'  towered  brim  ; 
And  now,  all  glad  the  temperate  air  to  breathe. 
While  cooling  drops  distil  from  arches  dim. 
Binding  her  dewy  locks  with  sedgy  wreath. 
She  sits  amid  the  quire  of  Naiads  trim. 

Thomas  Warton. 


BV  POETS  OF   THE  PAST. 


ON   REVISITING  THE  RIVER   LODON. 

H  !  what  a  weary  race  my  feet  have  run 
Since  first  I  trod  thy  banks  with  alders  crowned, 
And  thought  my  way  was  all  through  fairy 
ground, 
Beneath  thy  azure  sky  and  golden  sun, — 
Where  first  my  Muse  to  lisp  her  notes  begun  ! 
While  pensive  Memory  traces  back  the  round 
Which  fills  the  varied  interval  between  ; 
Much  pleasure,  more  of  sorrow,  marks  the  scene. 
Sweet  native  stream  !  those  skies  and  suns  so  pure 
No  more  return  to  cheer  my  evening  road  ! 
Yet  still  one  joy  remains,  that  not  obscure 
Nor  useless,  all  my  vacant  days  have  flowed 
I  From  youth's  gay  dawn  to  manhood's  prime  mature. 
Nor  with  the  Muse's  laurel  unbestowed. 

Thomas  Warton, 

/ 


EXGLISH  SONKETS. 


WRITTEN   ON   A   BLANK   LEAF   OF 
DUGDALE'S    "  MONASTICON." 

;  EEM  not  devoid  of  elegance  the  sage, 
By  fancy's  genuine  feelings  unbeguil'd, 
Of  painful  pedantry  the  poring  child, 
Who  turns  of  these  proud  domes  the  historic  page, 
Now  sunk  by  time,  and  Henry's  fiercer  rage. 
Think'st  thou  the  warbling  Muses  never  smiled 
On  his  lone  hours?    Ingenuous  views  engage 
His  thoughts  on  themes,  unclassic  falsely  styled. 
Intent,     While  cloistered  Piety  displays 
Her  mouldering  roll,  the  piercing  eye  explores 
New  manners,  and  the  pomp  of  elder  days, 
Whence  culls  the  pensive  bard  his  pictured  stores. 
Nor  rough,  nor  barren,  are  the  winding  ways 
Of  hoar  Antiquity,  but  strewn  with  flowers. 

Thomas  Warton. 


BV  POETS  OF  THE  PAST. 


TO   MARY  UNWIN. 


,-.^,.1^1,5' ARY  !    I  want  a  lyre  with  other  strings, 

'IMS 


Such  aid  from  heaven  as  some  have  feigned 
they  drew, 

An  eloquence  scarce  given  to  mortals,  new 
And  undebased  by  praise  of  meaner  things  ; 
That  ere  through  age  or  woe  I  shed  my  wings, 

I  may  record  thy  worth  with  honour  due, 

In  verse  as  musical  as  thou  art  true. 
And  that  immortalizes  whom  it  sings  : — 
But  thou  hast  little  need  ;— there  is  a  Book 

By  seraphs  writ  with  beams  of  heavenly  liglit. 
On  which  the  eyes  of  God  not  rarely  look, 

A  chronicle  of  actions  just  and  bright  ;  — 
There  all  thy  deeds,  my  faithful  Mary,  shine  ; 
And  since  thou  own'st  that  praise,  I  spare  thee  mine. 

William  Cowper. 

y 


ENGLISH  SONNETS. 


TO  THE   RIVER  ARUN. 


N  thy  wild  banks,  by  frequent  torrents  worn, 
No  glittering  fanes,  or  marble  domes  appear, 
Yet  shall  the  mournful  Muse  thy  course  adorn, 

And  still  to  her  thy  rustic  waves  be  dear  : — 

For  with  the  infant  Otway,  lingering  here, 

Of  early  woes  she  bade  her  votary  dream. 

While  thy  low  murmurs  soothed  his  pensive  ear, 

And  still  the  poet — consecrates  the  stream. 

Beneath  the  oak  and  birch  that  fringe  thy  side, 

The  first-born  violets  of  the  year  shall  spring  ; 

And  in  thy  hazels,  bending  o'er  the  tide, 

The  earliest  Nightingale  delight  to  sing  : 

— While  kindred  spirits,  pitying,  shall  relate 

Thy  Otway 's  sorrows,  and  lament  his  fate  ! 

Charlotte  Smith. 


£y  POETS  OF   THE  PAST. 


WRITTEN  AT  THE  CLOSE  OF  SPRING. 

(IHE  garlands  fade  that  Spring  so  lately  wove, 
Each  simple  flower,  which  she  had  nursed  in 
dew. 

Anemones,  that  spangled  eveiy  grove, 
The  primrose  wan,  and  harebell  mildly  blue. 
No  more  shall  violets  linger  in  the  dell, 
( )r  purple  orchis  variegate  the  plain, 
Till  Spring  again  shall  call  forth  every  bell, 
I  And  dress  with  humid  hands  her  wreaths  again. 
'  All,  poor  humanity  !  so  frail,  so  fair, 
Are  the  fond  visions  of  thy  early  day, 
Till  tyrant  passion  and  corrosive  care, 
!  Bid  all  thy  fairy  colours  fade  away. 
—Another  May  new  buds  and  flowers  shall  bring  : 
'  Ah  !  why  has  happiness  no  second  Spring? 

Charlotte  Smith. 


62  ENGLISH  SONNETS. 


ON   HEARING  A  THRUSH   SING 
In  A  Morning  Walk,  25TH  Jan.,  1793. 


ING  on,  sweet  thrush,  upon  the  leafless  bough 
Sing  on,  sweet  bird,  I  listen  to  thy  strain  : 
See  aged  winter,  'mid  his  surly  reign, 
At  thy  blithe  carol  clears  his  furrow'd  brow. 
So  in  lone  poverty's  dominion  drear. 

Sits  meek  Content  with  light  unanxious  heart, 
Welcomes  the  rapid  moments,  bids  them  part. 
Nor  asks  if  they  bring  aught  to  hope  or  fear. 
I  thank  thee.  Author  of  this  opening  day  I 

Thou  whose  bright  sun  now  gilds  yon  orient  skies  ! 
Riches  denied,  thy  boon  was  purer  joys. 
What  wealth  could  never  give  nor  take  away  ! 
Yet  come,  thou  child  of  poverty  and  care. 
The  mite  high  Heaven  bestowed,  that  mite  with  thee 
I'll  share.  >    > 

Robert  Burns. 


BY  POETS  OF   THE  PAST.  63 


ON   THE   DEATH  OF   ROBERT   RIDDEL,   OF 
GRENRIDDEL,  APRIL,   1794. 


O  more,  ye  warblers  of  the  wood,  no  more  ! 
Nor  pour  your  descant,  grating  on  my  soul  ; 


61     Thou  young-eyed  Spring,  gay  in  thy  verdant 
i  stole — 

I  More  welcome  were  to  me  grim  winter's  wildest  roar. 

IIuw  can  ye  charm,  ye  flowers,  with  all  your  dyes? 
I      Ye  l;low  upon  the  sod  that  wraps  my  friend  : 
I      How  can  I  to  the  tuneful  strain  attend  ? 
1  That  strain  flows  round  th'  untimely  tomb  where  Riddel  lies ! 
\ci,  pour,  ye  warblers,  pour  the  notes  of  woe. 
And  soothe  the  Virtues  weeping  on  his  bier  : 


The  Man  of  Worth,  and  has  not  left  his  peer, 
Is  in  his  narrow  house  for  ever  darkly  low. 

Thee,  Spring,  again  with  joy  shall  others  greet ; 
Me,  memoiy  of  my  loss  will  only  meet. 

RoBKRT  Burns. 


64  ENGLISH  SONNETS. 


ON  PARTING  WITH  HIS  BOOKS. 


S  one  who,  destined  from  his  friends  to  part, 
Regrets  his  loss,  yet  hopes  again  erewhile 
To  share  their  converse  and  enjoy  their  smile, 
And  temper  as  he  may  affliction's  dart ; — 
Thus,  loved  associates  !  chiefs  of  elder  Art  ! 
Teachers  of  wisdom  !  who  could  once  beguile 
My  tedious  hours,  and  lighten  every  toil, 
I  now  resign  you  :  nor  with  fainting  heart ; 
For  pass  a  few  short  years,  or  days,  or  hours. 
And  happier  seasons  may  their  dawn  unfold, 
And  all  your  sacred  fellowship  restore  ; 
When,  freed  from  earth,  unlimited  its  powers, 
Mind  shall  with  mind  direct  communion  hold, 
And  kindred  spirits  meet  to  part  no  more. 

William  Roscoe.   . 


£V  POETS  OF  THE  PAST. 


ECHO  AND  SILENCE. 

N  eddying  course  when  leaves  began  to  fly, 
And  Autumn  in  her  lap  the  store  to  strew, 
As  'mid  wild  scenes  I  chanced  the  Muse  to  woo 
jrhrough  glens  untrod,  and  woods  that  frowned  on  high, 
I  Two  sleeping  nymphs  with  wonder  mute  I  spy  ! 
And  lo,  she's  gone  ! — in  robe  of  dai-k-green  hue, 
'Twas  Echo  from  her  sister  Silence  flew  ; 
I  For  quick  the  hunter's  horn  resounded  to  the  sky  ! 
[In  shade  affrighted  Silence  melts  away  ; 
1     Not  so  her  sister: — hark  !  for  onward  still 
[With  far-heard  step  she  takes  her  listening  way, 
li     Bounding  from  rock  to  rock,  and  hill  to  hill ! 
f  A.h,  mark  the  merry  maid  in  mockful  play 

With  thousand  mimic  tones  the  laughing  forest  fill. 
i  Sir  Samuel  Egerton  Brydges. 


ENGLISH  SONNETS. 


ABSENCE. 


f-t^^^i#^'/l   When  lowers  the  autumnal  eve,  and  all  alone  ! 

^S^k^^ijJ   To  the  dark  wood's  cold  covert  thou  art  gone, , 

Whose  ancient  trees  on  the  rough  slope  reclined 

Rock,  and  at  times  scatter  their  tresses  sere. 

If  in  such  shades,  beneath  their  murmuring, 

Thou  late  hast  passed  the  happier  hours  of  spring,  , 

With  sadness  thou  wilt  mark  the  fading  year  ;  I 

Chiefly  if  one,  with  whom  such  sweets  at  morn  | 

Or  evening  thou  hast  shared,  far  off  shall  stray.  i 

O  .Spring,  return  !  return,  auspicious  May  ! 

But  sad  will  be  thy  coming,  and  forlorn,  ! 

If  she  return  not  with  thy  cheering  ray. 

Who  from  these  shades  is  gone,  gone  far  away. 

W^iLLiAM  Lisle  Bowles. 


BV  POETS  OF  THE  PAST.  67 


OSTEND, 

(On  hearing  the  Bei.ls  at  Sea.) 


OW  swoet  the  tuneful  bells'  responsive  peal  ! 
As  when  at  opening  mom  the  fragrant  breeze 
Breathes  on  the  trembling  sense  of  pale  disease, 


So  piercing  to  my  heart  their  force  I  feel  ! 
And  hark  !  with  lessening  cadence  now  they  fall ! 
And  now  along  the  white  and  level  tide, 
They  fling  their  melancholy  music  wide  ; 
Bidding  me  many  a  tender  thought  recall 
Of  summer  days,  and  those  delightful  years 
When  by  my  native  streams,  in  life's  fair  prime. 
The  mournful  magic  of  their  mingling  chime 
First  waked  my  wondering  childhood  into  tears  ! 
But  seeming  now,  when  all  those  days  are  o'er, 
The  sounds  of  joy  once  heard  and  heard  no  more. 

William  Lisle  Bowles. 


68 


ENGLISH  SONNETS. 


/ 


VALCLUSA. 


HAT  though,  ValcUisa,  the  fond  bard  be  fled, 
That  wooed  his  fair  in  thy  sequestered  bowers, 
Longloved  her  living,long bemoaned  her  dead, 
And  hung  her  visionary  shrine  with  flowers  ! 
What  though  no  more  he  teach  thy  shades  to  mourn 
The  hapless  chances  that  to  love  belong, 
As  erst,  when  drooping  o'er  her  turf  forlorn. 
He  channed  wild  Echo  with  his  plaintive  song  ! 
Yet  still,  enamoured  of  the  tender  tale, 

Pale  Passion  haunts  thy  grove's  romantic  gloom, 
Yet  still  soft  music  breathes  in  every  gale, 
Still  undecayed  the  faiiy  garlands  bloom. 
Still  heavenly  incense  fills  each  fragrant  vale, 
Still  Petrarch's  Genius  weeps  o'er  Laura's  tomb. 

Thomas  Russell. 


BY  POETS  OF  THE  PAST. 


AT  LEMNOS. 


/ 


N  this  lone  isle,  whose  rugged  rocks  affright 
The  cautious  pilot,  ten  revolving  years 
Great  Pjean's  son,  unwonted  erst  to  tears, 
Wept  o'er  his  wound :  alike  each  rolling  light 
Of  heaven  he  watched,  and  blamed  its  lingering  flight  : 
By  day  the  sea-mew,  screaming  round  his  cave, 
Drove  slumber  from  his  eyes  ;  the  chiding  wave 
And  savage  howlings  chased  his  dreams  by  night. 
Hope  still  was  his  :  in  each  low  breeze,  that  sighed 
Through  his  rude  grot,  he  heard  a  coming  oar  ; 
In  each  white  cloud  a  coming  sail  he  spied ; 
Nor  seldom  listened  to  the  fancied  roar 
Of  CEta's  torrents,  or  the  hoarser  tide 
That  i^arts  famed  Trachis  from  the  Euboic  shore. 

Thomas  Russell. 


ENGLISH  SONNETS. 


OULD  then  the  Babes  from  yon  unsheltered  cot 
Implore  thy  passing  charity  in  vain  ? 
Too  thoughtless  Youth  !  what  tho'  thy  happier 

lot 
Insult  their  life  of  poverty  and  pain  ! 
What  tho'  their  Maker  doomed  them  thus  forlorn 
To  brook  the  mockery  of  the  taunting  throng, 
Beneath  th'  oppressor's  iron  scourge  to  mourn, 
To  mourn,  but  not  to  murmur  at  his  wrong  ! 
Yet  when  their  last  late  evening  shall  decline, 

Their  evening  cheerful,  though  their  day  distress'd, 
A  Hope  perhaps  more  heavenly-bright  than  thine, 
A  Grace  by  thee  unsought,  and  unpossess'd, 
A  Faith  more  fixed,  a  Rapture  more  divine 
Shall  gild  their  passage  to  eternal  Rest. 

Thomas  Russell. 


jBv  poets  of  the  past. 


T  is  a  beauteous  evening,  calm  and  free  ; 
The  lioly  time  is  quiet  as  a  nun 
Breathless  with  adoration  ;  the  broad  sun 
Is  sinking  down  in  its  tranquillity  ; 
The  gentleness  of  heaven  is  on  the  sea  : 
Listen  !  the  mighty  Being  is  awake, 
And  doth  with  his  eternal  motion  make 
A  sound  like  thunder — everlastingly. 
Dear  child  !  dear  girl !  that  walkest  with  me  here. 
If  thou  appear  untouched  by  solemn  thought, 
Thy  nature  is  not  therefore  less  divine  : 
Thou  liest  in  Abraham's  bosom  all  the  year. 
And  worship'st  at  the  Temple's  inner  shrine, 
God  being  with  thee  when  we  know  it  not. 

William  Wordsworth. 


/ 


ENGLISH  SONNETS. 


COMPOSED  UPON  WESTMINSTER  BRIDGE. 

"ARTH  has  not  anything  to  show  more  fair  : 
Dull  would  he  be  of  soul  who  could  pass  Vjy 
A  sight  so  touching  in  its  majesty  : 
This  city  now  doth  like  a  gannent  wear 
The  beauty  of  the  morning  ;  silent,  bare, 

Ships,  towers,  domes,  theatres,  and  temples  lie 
Open  unto  the  fields  and  to  the  sky. 
All  bright  and  glittering  in  the  smokeless  air. 
Never  did  sun  more  beautifully  steep 

In  his  first  splendour,  valley,  rock,  or  hill ; 
Never  saw  I,  never  felt,  a  calm  so  deep  ! 

The  river  glideth  at  his  own  sweet  will : 

Dear  God  !  the  very  houses  seem  asleep  ; 

And  all  that  mighty  heart  is  lying  still  ! 

William  Wordsworth. 


BV  POETS  OF  THE  PAST. 


ENGLAND   AND   SWITZERLAND,   1802. 


One  of  the  mountains  ;  each  a  mighty  Voice 
In  both  from  age  to  age  thou  didst  rejoice, 
They  were  thy  chosen  music,  Liberty  ! 
There  came  a  Tyrant,  and  with  holy  glee 

Thou  fought'st  against  him ;  but  hast  vainly  striven  : 
Thou  from  thy  Alpine  holds  at  length  art  driven, 
Where  not  a  torrent  murmurs  heard  by  thee. 
Of  one  deep  bliss  thine  ear  hath  been  bereft : 
Then  cleave,  O  cleave,  to  that  which  still  is  left ; 

For,  high-souled  Maid,  what  sorrow  would  it  be 
That  Mountain  floods  should  thunder  as  before. 
And  Ocean  bellow  from  his  rocky  shore, 
And  neither  awful  Voice  be  heard  by  thee  ! 

William  Wordsworth..  ' 

/- 


\ 


ENGLISH  SONNETS. 


^^^URPRISED  by  joy — impatient  as  the  wind 

I  turned  to  share  the  transport — Oh,  with  whom 
But  thee,  deep-buried  in  the  silent  tomb, 
That  spot  which  no  vicissitude  can  find  ? 
Love,  faithful  love,  recalled  thee  to  my  mind — 

But  how  could  I  forget  thee  ?    Through  what  power. 
Even  for  the  least  division  of  an  hour, 
Have  I  been  so  beguiled  as  to  be  blind 
To  my  most  grievous  loss  ?    That  thought's  return 

Was  the  worst  pang  that  sorrow  ever  bore. 
Save  one,  one  only,  when  I  stood  forlorn. 

Knowing  my  heart's  best  treasure  was  no  more  ; 
That  neither  present  time,  nor  years  unbom, 
Could  to  my  sight  that  heavenly  face  restore. 

^YILLIA^I  Wordsworth. 


BY  POETS  OF   THE  PAST. 


J 


',ALM  is  all  nature  as  a  resting  wheel. 

The  kine  are  couched  upon  the  dewy  grass  ; 
The  horse  alone,  seen  dimly  as  I  pass, 
Is  cropping  audibly  his  later  meal  : 
Dark  is  the  ground  ;  a  slumber  seems  to  steal 
O'er  vale  and  mountain,  and  the  starless  sky  ; 
Now,  in  this  blank  of  things,  a  harmony, 
Home-felt,  and  home-created,  comes  to  heal 
That  grief  for  which  the  senses  still  supply 
Fresh  food  ;  for  only  then,  when  memory 

Is  hushed,  am  I  at  rest.     My  friends !  restrain 
Those  busy  cares  that  would  allay  my  pain ; 
Oh,  leave  me  to  myself!  nor  let  me  feel 
The  officious  touch  that  makes  me  droop  again. 

William  Wordsworth. 


/ 


76  ENGLISH  SONNETS. 


OW  sweet  it  is,  when  mother  Fancy  rocks 
The  wayward  brain,  to  savmterthroughawood! 
An  old  place,  full  of  many  a  lovely  brood, 
Tall  trees,  green  arbours,  and  ground-flowers  in  flocks  ; 
And  wild  rose  tip-toe  upon  hawthorn  stocks. 
Like  a  bold  girl  who  plays  her  agile  pranks 
At  wakes  and  fairs  with  wandering  mountebanks, — 
When  she  stands  cresting  the  clown's  head,  and  mocks 
The  crowd  beneath  her.     Verily  I  think, 

Such  place  to  me  is  sometimes  like  a  dream 
Or  map  of  the  whole  world  :  thoughts,  link  by  link, 
Enter  through  ears  and  eyesight,  with  such  gleam 
Of  all  things,  that  at  last  in  fear  I  shrink, 
And  leap  at  once  from  the  delicious  stream. 

William  Wordsworth. 


BY  POETS  OF   THE  PAST. 


UNS  fret  not  at  their  convent's  narrow  room  ; 
And  hermits  are  contented  with  their  cells  ; 
And  students  with  their  pensive  citadels  : 
'  Maids  at  the  wheel,  the  weaver  at  his  loom, 
Sit  blithe  and  happy  ;  bees  that  soar  for  bloom. 
High  as  the  highest  peak  of  Furness-fells, 
Will  murmur  by  the  hour  in  foxglove  bells  : 
In  truth,  the  prison  unto  which  we  doom 
Ourselves,  no  prison  is  :  and  hence  for  me, 
In  sundry  moods,  'twas  pastime  to  be  bound 
Within  the  Sonnet's  scanty  plot  of  ground  ; 
Pleased  if  some  Souls  (for  such  there  needs  must  be) 
Who  have  felt  the  weight  of  too  much  liberty, 
Should  find  brief  solace  there,  as  I  have  found. 

William  Wordsworth. 


78 


ENGLISH  SONNETS. 


A 


IIE  world  is  too  mucli  with  us  ;  late  cind  soon, 
Getting   and    spending,    we    lay   waste    our 

powers  : 

Little  we  see  in  Nature  that  is  ours  ; 
We  have  given  our  hearts  away,  a  sordid  boon  ! 
This  sea  that  bares  her  bosom  to  the  moon, 
The  winds  that  will  be  howling  at  all  hours, 
And  are  up-gathered  now  like  sleeping  flowers  ; 
For  this,  for  everything,  we  are  out  of  tune  ; 
It  moves  us  not. — Great  God  !  I'd  rather  be 

A  Pagan  suckled  in  a  creed  outworn  ; 
So  might  I,  standing  on  this  pleasant  lea. 

Have  glimpses  that  would  make  me  less  forlorn  ; 
Have  sight  of  Proteus  rising  from  the  sea  ; 
Or  hear  old  Triton  blow  his  wreathed  horn. 

William  Wordsworth. 


BY  POETS  OF   THE  PAST.  79 


LONDON,   1802. 


B^^^:».|ILTON  !  thou  shouldst  be  living  at  this  hour  : 
England  hath  need  of  thee :  she  is  a  fen 


Of  stagnant  waters :  altar,  sword,  and  pen, 
I  Fireside,  the  heroic  wealth  of  hall  and  bower, 
1  Have  forfeited  their  ancient  English  dower 
Of  inward  happiness.     We  are  selfish  men  ; 
Oh  !  raise  us  up,  return  to  us  again  ; 
And  give  us  manners,  virtue,  freedom,  power. 
Thy  soul  was  like  a  star,  and  dwelt  apart ; 

Thou  hadst  a  voice  whose  sound  was  like  the  sea, 
Pure  as  the  naked  heavens,  majestic,  free  ; 
So  didst  thou  travel  on  life's  common  way, 
In  cheerful  godliness  ;  and  yet  thy  heart 
The  lowliest  duties  on  herself  did  lay. 

William  Wordsworth. 


8o  ENGLISH  SONNETS. 


> 


ON    THE    EXTINCTION    OF   THE    VENETIAN 
REPUBLIC. 

]NCE  did  She  hold  the  gorgeous  East  in  fee  ; 
And  was  the  safeguard  of  the  West :  the  worth 
Of  Venice  did  not  fall  below  her  birth, 
Venice,  the  eldest  child  of  Liberty. 
She  was  a  maiden  city,  bright  and  free  ; 
No  guile  seduced,  no  force  could  violate  ; 
And  when  she  took  unto  herself  a  mate. 
She  must  espouse  the  everlasting  Sea. 
And  what  if  she  had  seen  those  glories  fade, 

Those  titles  vanish,  and  that  strength  decay, — 
Yet  shall  some  tribute  of  regret  be  paid 

When  her  long  life  hath  reached  its  final  day  : 

Men  are  we,  and  must  grieve  when  even  the  Shade 

Of  that  which  once  was  great  is  passed  away. 

William  Wordsworth. 


/ 


BV  POETS  OF  THE  PAST. 


FOE  T! — He  hath  put  his  heart  to  school, 
Nor  dares  to  move  unpropped  upon  the  staff 
Which  Art  hath  lodged  within  his  hand — 
must  laugh 
Ly  j.irecept  only,  and  shed  tears  by  rule. 

Thy  Art  be  Nature  ;  the  live  current  quaff 
And  let  the  groveller  sip  his  stagnant  pool, 
In  fear  that  else,  when  Critics  grave  and  cool 

Have  killed  him.  Scorn  should  write  his  epitaph. 
How  does  the  Meadow-flower  its  bloom  unfold? 

llecause  the  lovely  little  flower  is  free 
Down  to  its  root,  and,  in  that  freedom,  bold  ; 

And  so  the  grandeur  of  the  Forest-tree 
Comes  not  by  casting  in  a  formal  mould, 
l!ut  from  its  own  divine  vitality. 

William  Wordsworth. 


ENGLISH  SONNETS. 


WATCH,  and  long  have  watched,  with  cahn 
regret 
i     Yon  slowly-sinking  star — immortal  Sire 
(So  might  he  seem)  of  all  the  glittering  quire  ! 
Blue  ether  still  surrounds  him — yet — and  yet  ; 
But  now  the  horizon's  rocky  parapet 

Is  reached,  where,  forfeiting  his  bright  attire, 
He  burns — transmuted  to  a  sullen  fire,  [ 

That  droops  and  dwindles — and,  the  appointed  debt 
To  the  flying  moments  paid,  is  seen  no  more. 

Angels  and  gods  !  we  struggle  with  our  fate,  I 

While  health,  power,  glory,  pitiably  decline, 
Depressed,  and  then  extinguished  :  and  our  state 
In  this  how  different,  lost  star,  from  thine, 
That  no  to-morrow  shall  our  beams  restore  ! 

William  Wordsworth. 


By  POETS  OF   THE  PAST.  S3 


THOUGHT  of  Thee,  my  partner  and  my  guide, 
As  being  past  away. — Vain  sympathies  ! 
For  backward,  Duddon  !  as  I  cast  my  eyes, 
I  see  what  was,  and  is,  and  will  abide  ; 
Still  glides  the  Stream,  and  shall  for  ever  glide  ; 
The  Form  remains,  the  Function  never  dies  ; 
Which  we,  the  brave,  the  mighty,  and  the  wise, 
We  men,  who  in  our  morn  of  youth  defied 

The  elements,  must  vanish  ; — be  it  so  ! 
Enough,  if  something  from  our  hands  have  power 
To  live,  and  act,  and  serve  the  future  hour  ; 
And  if,  as  toward  the  silent  tomb  we  go. 
Through  love,  through  hope, and  faith's  transcendent  dower. 
We  feel  that  we  are  greater  than  we  know. 

William  Wordsworth. 


A 


84  ENGLISH  SONNETS. 


I 


NOVEMBER,   1806. 

ijNOTHER  year  ! — another  deadly  blow  ! 
Another  mighty  empire  overthrown  ! 
And  we  are  left,  or  shall  be  left,  alone  ; 
The  last  that  dare  to  struggle  with  the  foe. 
'Tis  well  !  from  this  day  forward  we  shall  know 
That  in  ourselves  our  safety  must  be  sought  ; 
That  by  our  own  right  hands  it  must  be  wrought  ; 
That  we  must  stand  unpropped,  or  be  laid  low, 
O  dastard  whom  such  foretaste  doth  not  cheer  ! 

We  shall  exult,  if  they  who  rule  the  land 
Be  men  who  hold  its  many  blessings  dear. 

Wise,  upright,  valiant ;  not  a  ser\dle  band. 
Who  are  to  judge  of  danger  which  they  fear, 
And  honour  which  they  do  not  understand. 

William  Wordsworth. 


/''' 


By  POETS  OF   THE  PAST.  8s 


LONDON,  1802. 

FRIEND  !  I  know  not  which  way  I  must  look 
For  comfort,  being,  as  I  am,  opprest, 
To  think  that  now  our  life  is  only  drest 


For  show  ;  mean  handiwork  of  craftsman,  cook. 
Or  groom  ! — We  must  run  glittering  like  a  brook 
In  the  open  sunshine,  or  we  are  unblest : 
The  wealthiest  man  among  us  is  the  best : 
No  grandeur  now  in  nature  or  in  book 
Delights  us.     Rapine,  avarice,  expense, 
,    This  is  idolatry  ;  and  these  we  adore  : 
Plain  living  and  high  thinking  are  no  more. 
The  homely  beauty  of  the  good  old  cause 
Is  gone  ;  our  peace,  our  fearful  innocence, 

And  pure  religion  breathing  household  laws. 

William  Wordsworth. 


// 


86  EXGLISH  SONNETS. 


A  PARSONAGE  IN  OXFORDSHIRE. 

HERE  holy  ground  begins,  unhallowed  ends, 
Is  marked  by  no  distinguishable  line  ; 
The  turf  invites,  the  pathways  intertwine  ; 
And,  wheresoe'er  the  stealing  footstep  tends. 
Garden,  and  that  domain  where  kindred,  friends, 
And  neighbours  rest  together,  here  confound 
Their  several  features,  mingled  like  the  sound 
Of  many  waters,  or  as  evening  blends 
With  shady  night.     Soft  airs  from  shrub  and  flower 
Waft  fragrant  greetings  to  each  silent  grave  ; 
And  while  those  lofty  poplars  gently  wave 
Their  tops,  between  them  comes  and  goes  a  sky 
Bright  as  the  glimpses  of  eternity 

To  saints  accorded  in  their  mortal  hour. 

William  Wordsworth. 


£V  POETS  OF   THE  PAST. 


NATURE. 


7 


T  may  indeed  be  phantasy  when  I 
Essay  to  draw  from  all  created  things 
Deep,  heartfelt,  inward  joy  that  closely  clings; 
And  trace  in  leaves  and  flowers  that  round  me  lie 
Lessons  of  love  and  earnest  piety. 

So  let  it  be  ;  and  if  the  wide  world  rings 
In  mock  of  this  belief,  to  me  it  brings 
Nor  fear,  nor  grief,  nor  vain  perplexity. 
So  will  I  build  my  altar  in  the  fields, 

And  the  blue  sky  my  fretted  dome  shall  be, 
And  the  sweet  fragrance  that  the  wild  flower  yields 

Shall  be  the  incense  I  will  yield  to  Thee, 

The  only  God  !    and  Thou  shalt  not  despise 

Even  me,  the  priest  of  this  poor  sacrifice. 

Samuel  Taylor  Coleridge. 


EXCLISH  SONNETS. 


/ 


FANCY   IN   NUBIBUS. 


i|,  IT  is  pleasant,  with  a  heart  at  ease, 
Just  after  sunset,  or  by  moonlight  skies, 
To  make  the  shifting  clouds  be  what  you  please. 
Or  let  the  easily-persuaded  eyes 
Own  each  quaint  likeness  issuing  from  the  mould 
Of  a  friend's  fancy  ;  or,  with  head  bent  low 
And  cheek  aslant,  see  rivers  flow  of  gold 
'Twixt  ciimson  banks  ;  and  then,  a  traveller,  go 
From  mount  to  mount  through  Cloudland,  gorgeous  land  ! 
Or  listening  to  the  tide,  with  closed  sight. 
Be  that  blind  bard  who,  on  the  Chian  strand 
By  those  deep  sounds  possessed  with  inward  light, 
Beheld  the  Iliad  and  the  Odyssee 
Rise  to  the  swelling  of  the  voiceful  sea. 

Samuel  Taylor  Coleridge. 


BV  POETS  OF  THE  PAST.  89 


THE  AUTUMNAL  MOON. 

ILD  splendour  of  the  various-vested  Night ! 

Mother  of  wildly-working-visions  !  hail  ! 

I  watch  thy  gliding,  while  with  watery  light 
Thy  weak  eye  glimmers  through  a  fleecy  veil ; 
And  when  thou  lovest  thy  pale  orb  to  shroud 
Behind  the  gathered  blackness  lost  on  high ; 
And  when  thou  dartest  from  the  wind-rent  cloud 
Thy  placid  lightning  o'er  the  awakened  sky. 
Ah  such  is  Hope  !  as  changeful  and  as  fair ! 
Now  dimly  peering  on  the  wistful  sight ; 
Now  hid  behind  the  dragon-winged  Despair  ; 
But  soon  emerging  in  her  radiant  might 
.She  o'er  the  sorrow-clouded  breast  of  Care 
Sails,  like  a  meteor  kindling  in  its  flight. 

Samuel  Taylor  Coleridge. 


ENGLISH  SONNETS. 


Is 


FAREWELL  TO  LOVE. 

TJAREWELL,  sweet  Love  !  yet  blame  you  not 
my  truth  : 
More  fondly  ne'er  did  mother  eye  her  child 


Than  I  your  form.     Yours  were  my  hopes  of  youth, 
And  as  you  shaped  my  thoughts,  I  sighed  or  smiled. 

While  most  were  wooing  wealth,  or  gaily  swerving 
To  pleasure's  secret  haunts,  and  some  apart 
Stood  strong  in  pride,  self-conscious  of  deserving, 
To  you  I  gave  my  whole,  weak,  wishing  heart. 

And  when  I  met  the  maid  that  realized 

Your  fair  creations,  and  had  won  her  kindness. 
Say  but  for  her  if  aught  on  earth  I  prized  ! 

Your  dream  alone  I  dreamt,  and  caught  your  blindness. 
O  grief! — but  farewell,  Love  !  I  will  go  play  me 
With  thoughts  that  please  me  less,  and  less  betray  me. 
Samuel  Taylor  Ccleridge. 


By  POETS  OF  THE  PAST. 


ASK  not  riches,  and  I  ask  not  power, 
Nor  in  her  revel  rout  shall  Pleasure  view 
Me  ever, — a  far  sweeter  nymph  I  woo. 
Hail,  sweet  Retirement !  lead  me  to  thy  bower, 
"Where  fair  Content  has  spread  her  loveliest  flower, 
Of  more  enduring,  though  less  gaudy  hue, 
Than  Pleasure  scatters  to  her  giddy  crew  ; 
Nor  let  aught  break  upon  thy  sacred  hour, 
Save  some  true  friend,  of  pure  congenial  soul  ; 
To  such  the  latchet  of  my  wicket-gate 
Let  me  lift  freely,  glad  to  share  the  dole 
Fortune  allows  me,  whether  small  or  great, 
And  a  warm  heart,  that  knows  not  the  control 
Of  Fortune,  and  defies  the  frown  of  Fate. 

Henry  Francis  Gary. 


ENGLISH  SONNETS. 


GOD  !  have  mercy  in  this  dreadful  hour 
On  the  poor  mariner  !  in  comfort  here 
Safe  sheltered  as  I  am,  I  almost  fear 
The  blast  that  rages  -with  resistless  power. 
What  were  it  now  to  toss  upon  the  waves, 

Tlie  maddened  waves,  and  know  no  succour  near  : 
The  howling  of  the  storm  alone  to  hear. 
And  the  wild  sea  that  to  the  tempest  raves  ;     , 
To  gaze  amid  the  horrors  of  the  night 
And  only  see  the  billow's  gleaming  light ; 

Then  in  the  dread  of  death  to  think  of  her 
Who,  as  she  listens  sleepless  to  the  gale, 
Puts  up  a  silent  prayer  and  waxes  pale, — 
'  O  God  !  have  mercy  on  the  mariner  ! ' 

Robert  Southey. 


BV  POETS  OF  THE  PAST. 


TO  A  FRIEND. 

IRIEND  of  my  earliest  years  and  childish  days, 
My  joys,  my  sorrows,  thou  with  me  hast  shared, 
Companion  dear,  and  we  alike  have  fared 
( Poor  pilgrims  we)  through  life's  unequal  ways ; 
It  were  unwisely  done,  should  we  refuse 
To  cheer  our  path  as  featly  as  we  may, 
Our  lonely  path  to  cheer,  as  travellers  use. 
With  merry  song,  quaint  tale,  or  roundelay  ; 
And  we  will  sometimes  talk  past  troubles  o'er, 
Of  mercies  shewn,  and  all  our  sickness  healed. 
And  in  his  judgments  God  remembering  love ; 
And  we  will  learn  to  praise  God  evermore 
For  those  glad  tidings  of  great  joy  revealed 
By  that  sooth  Messenger  sent  from  above. 

Charles  Lamb. 


ENGLISH  SONNETS. 


TO  INNOCENCE. 

E  were  two  pretty  babes  ;  the  youngest  she, 
The  youngest,  and  the  loveliest  far,  I  ween, 
And  Innocence  her  name.    The  time  has  been 

We  two  did  love  each  other's  company  ; 

Time  was,  we  two  had  wept  to  have  been  apart. 

But  when,  by  show  of  seeming  good  beguiled, 

I  left  the  garb  and  manners  of  a  child. 

And  my  first  love,  for  man's  society, 

Defiling  with  the  world  my  virgin  heart — 

My  loved  companion  dropped  a  tear,  and  fled, 

And  hid  in  deepest  shades  her  awful  head.  ; 

Beloved,  who  shall  tell  me  where  thou  art — 

In  what  delicious  Eden  to  be  found — 

That  I  may  seek  thee  the  wide  world  around. 

Charles  Lami;. 


By  POETS   OF   THE  PAST. 


N  Christian  world  Mary  the  garland  wears  ! 
Rebecca  sweetens  on  a  Hebrew's  ear  ; 
Quakers  for  pure  PHscilla  are  more  clear  ; 
And  the  light  Gaul  by  amorous  Ninon  swears  ; 
Among  the  lesser  lights  how  Lucy  shines  I 
What  air  of  fragrance  Rosamond  throws  round  ! 
1   How  like  a  hymn  doth  sweet  Cecilia  sound  ! 

Of  Marthas,  and  of  Abigails,  few  lines 
i  Have  bragged  in  verse.     Of  coarsest  household  stuff 

Should  homely  Joan  be  fashioned.     But  can 

i 
You  Barbara  resist,  or  Rla^-ian  ? 

\  And  is  not  Clai-e  for  love  excuse  enough  ? 

1       Yet,  by  my  faith  in  numbers,  I  profess, 

I      These  all  than  Saxon  Edith  please  me  less. 

I  Charles  Lamb. 


96 


ENGLISH  SONNETS. 


A 


NIGHT  AND  DEATH. 


;|YSTERIOUS    Night !   when  our  first   parent 

l<new 
^     Thee  from  report  divine,  and  heard  thy  name, 
Did  he  not  tremble  for  this  lovely  frame, 
This  glorious  canopy  of  light  and  blue  ? 
Yet  'neath  a  curtain  of  translucent  dew, 

Bathed  in  the  rays  of  the  great  setting  flame, 
Hesperus  with  the  host  of  heaven  came. 
And  lo  !  creation  widened  in  man's  view. 
Who  could  have  thought  such  darkness  lay  concealed 
Within  thy  beams,  O  Sun  !  or  who  could  find. 
Whilst  fly  and  leaf  and  insect  stood  revealed. 
That  to  such  countless  orbs  thou  mad'st  us  blind  ! 
Why  do  we  then  shun  death  with  anxious  strife  ? 
If  Light  can  thus  deceive,  wherefore  not  Life  ? 

Joseph  Blanco  White. 

/ 


£V  POETS  OF   THE  PAST. 


TERNAL  and  Omnipotent  Unseen  ! 

Who  bad'st  the  world,  with  all  its  lives  complete, 
^^^'S'l     vStart  from  the  void  and  thrill  beneath  thy  feet, 
Thee  I  adore  with  reverence  serene  ; 
Here,  in  the  fields,  thine  own  cathedral  meet. 

Built  by  thyself,  star-roofed,  and  hvmg  with  green, 
Wherein  all  breathing  things  in  concord  sweet, 
Organed  by  winds,  perpetual  hymns  repeat. 
Here  hast  thou  spread  that  book  to  every  eye. 

Whose  tongue  and  truth  all,  all  may  read  and  prove. 
On  whose  three  blessed  leaves.  Earth,  Ocean,  Sky, 
Thine  own  right  hand  hath  stamped  might,  justice,  love ; 
Grand  Trinity,  which  binds  in  due  degree 
God,  man,  and  brute,  in  social  unity. 

Horace  Smith. 


EXGLISH  SONA'ETS. 


OX   THE   STATUE   OF  A   PIPING   FAUN. 


ARK  !    hear'st   thou  not  the  pipe  of  Faunus, 
sweeping, 
In  dulcet  glee,  through  Thessaly's  domain? 
Dost  thou  not  see  embowered  wood-nymplis  peeping 

To  watch  the  Graces  that  around  him  reign  ; 
While  distant  vintagers,  and  peasants  reaping, 

Stand  in  mute  transport,  listening  to  the  strain  ; 
And  Pan  himself,  beneath  a  pine-tree  sleeping, 

Looks  round,  and  smiles,  and  drops  to  sleep  again  ? 

O  happy  Greece  !  while  thy  blest  sons  were  rovers 
Through  all  the  loveliness  this  earth  discovers, 

They  in  their  minds  a  brighter  region  founded, 
Haunted  by  gods  and  sylvans,  nymphs  and  lovers. 
Where  forms  of  grace  through  sunny  landscapes  bounded. 
By  music  and  enchantment  all  surrounded. 

Horace  Smith.    ' 


£V  POETS  OF   THE  PAST. 


ON   A   GREEN-HOUSE. 


ERE,   from  earth's  dredal  heights  and  dingles 
lowly, 
The  representatives  of  Nature  meet ; 
Not  like  a  Congress,  or  Alliance  Holy 
Of  Kings,  to  rivet  chains,  but  with  their  sweet 
Blossomy  mouths  to  preach  the  love  complete, 
That  with  pearl'd  misletoe,  and  beaded  holly. 

Clothed  them  in  green  unchangeable,  to  greet 
Winter  with  smiles,  and  banish  melancholy. 

I  envy  not  the  Emathian  madman's  fame, 
Who  won  the  world,  and  built  immortal  shame 

On  tears  and  blood  ;  but  if  some  flower,  new  found, 
In  its  embalming  cup  might  shroud  my  name, 
Mine  were  a  tomb  more  worthily  renowned 
Than  Cheops'  pile,  or  Artemisia's  mound. 

Horace  Smith. 


ENGLISH  SONNETS. 


THE   HARVEST   MOON. 


,.-^>^^;  HE  crimson  moon,  uprising  from  the  sea, 
;.fcl-wyl   With  large  delight,  foretells  the  harvest  near 
feiffl   Ye  shepherds,  now  prepare  your  melody 


To  greet  the  soft  appearance  of  her  sphere  ; — 
And,  like  a  page  enamoured  of  her  train. 
The  star  of  evening  glimmers  in  the  west : 
Then  raise,  ye  shepherds,  your  observant  strain, 
That  so  of  the  Great  Shepherd  here  are  blest : — 
Our  fields  are  full  with  the  time-ripened  grain, 
Our  vineyards  with  the  purple  clusters  swell ; 
Her  golden  splendour  glimmers  on  the  main, 
And  vales  and  mountains  her  bright  glory  tell  : 
Then  sing,  ye  shepherds,  for  the  time  is  come 
When  we  must  bring  the  enriched  harvest  home. 

Lord  Thurlow. 


BV  POETS  OF    THE  PAST. 


TO   A   WATER  BIRD.  Yv 

i 

MELANCHOLY  bird  !— a  winter's  day 
Thou  standest  by  the  margin  of  the  pool, 
And,  taught  by  God,  dost  thy  whole  being 
school 
To  patience,  which  all  evil  can  allay  ; 
God  has  appointed  thee  the  fish  thy  prey  ; 
And  given  thyself  a  lesson_  to  the  fool 
Unthrifty,  to  submit  to  moral  rale, 
And  his  unthinking  course  by  thee  to  weigh. 
There  need  not  schools,  nor  the  professor's  chair. 
Though  these  be  good,  true  wisdom  to  impart ; 
He  who  has  not  enough  for  these  to  spare 

Of  time  or  gold,  may  yet  amend  his  heart, 
And  teach  his  soul  by  brooks  and  rivers  fair  ; 
Nature  is  always  wise  in  every  part. 

Lord  Thurlow. 


ENGLISH  SONNETS. 


TO  AMORET. 

(|HE  Summer,  the  divinest  Summer  burns, 
The  skies  are  bright  with  azure  and  with  gold  ; 
itfj     The  mavis  and  the  nightingale,  by  turns, 
Amid  the  woods  a  soft  enchantment  hold  ; 
The  flowering  woods,  with  glory  and  delight, 
Their  tender  leaves  unto  the  air  have  spread ; 
The  wanton  air  amid  their  alleys  bright 
Doth  softly  fly,  and  a  light  fragrance  shed  ; 
The  Nymphs  within  the  silver  fountains  play  ; 
The  Angels  on  the  golden  banks  recline  ; 
Wherein  great  Flora,  in  her  bright  array. 
Hath  sprinkled  her  ambrosial  sweets  divine  ; — 
Or,  else,  I  gaze  upon  that  beauteous  face, 
O  Amoret !  and  think  these  sweets  have  place. 

Lord  Thuri.ow. 


BV  POETS   OF  THE  PAST. 


FOUNTAINS   ABBEY. 

BBEY  !  for  ever  smiling  pensively, 

How  like  a  thing  of  Nature  dost  thou  rise 
1^     Amid  her  loveliest  works  !  as  if  the  skies, 
Clouded  with  grief,  were  arched  thy  roof  to  be, 
And  the  tall  trees  were  copied  all  from  thee  ! 
Mourning  thy  fortunes — while  the  waters  dim 
Flow  like  the  memory  of  thy  evening  hymn. 
Beautiful  in  their  sorrowing  sympathy  ; 

As  if  they  with  a  weeping  sister  wept. 
Winds  name  thy  name  !    But  thou,  tho'  sad,  art  calm, 

And  Time  with  thee  his  plighted  troth  hath  kept  ; 
For  harebells  deck  thy  brow,  and,  at  thy  feet. 
Where  sleep  the  proud,  the  bee  and  redbreast  meet, 
Mixing  thy  sighs  with  Nature's  lonely  psalm. 

Ebenezer  Elliott. 


EXGLISII  SOXNETS. 


TO  THE  GRASSHOPPER  AND  THE  CRICKET. 


■^;^\tf.?<  REEN  little  vaulter  in  the  sunny  grass, 

Catching  your  heart  up  at  the  feel  of  June, 
Sole  voice  that's  heard  amidst  the  lazy  noon, 
When  even  the  bees  lag  at  the  summoning  brass  ; 
And  you,  warm  little  housekeeper,  who  class 

With  those  who  think  the  candles  come  too  soon. 

Loving  the  fire,  and  with  your  tricksome  tune 
Nick  the  glad  silent  moments  as  they  pass  ; 
Oh  sweet  and  tiny  cousins,  that  belong. 

One  to  the  fields,  the  other  to  the  hearth. 
Both  have  your  sunshine  ;  both,  tho'  small,  are  strong 

At  your  clear  hearts  ;  and  both  seem  given  to  earth 
To  sing  in  thoughtful  ears  this  natural  song^ 

In  doors  and  out,  summer  and  winter,  iNIirth. 

Leigh  Hunt. 


BY  POETS  OF   THE  PAST. 


THE   NILE. 


T  flows  through  old  hushed  Egypt  and  its  sands, 
Like  some  grave  mighty  thought  threading  a 
dream. 

And  times  and  things,  as  in  that  vision,  seem 
Keeping  along  it  their  eternal  stands, — 
Caves,  pillars,  pyramids,  the  shepherd  bands 
That  roamed  through  the  young  world,  the  glory  extreme 
Of  high  Sesostris,  and  that  southern  beam. 
The  laughing  queen  that  caught  the  world's  great  hands. 
Then  comes  a  mightier  silence,  stern  and  strong. 
As  of  a  world  left  empty  of  its  throng. 
And  the  void  weighs  on  us  ;  and  then  we  wake. 
And  hear  the  fruitful  stream  lapsing  along 
'Twixt  villages,  and  think  how  we  shall  take 
Our  own  calm  journey  on  for  human  sake. 

Leigh  Hunt. 


/ 


/ 


lo6  ESGLISII  SOS  NETS. 


ORFORD   CASTLE. 


ilEACON  for  barks  that  navigate  the  stream 
Of  Ore  or  Aide,  or  breast  the  ocean  spray  ; 
Landmark  for  inland  travellers  far  away 
O'er  heath  and  sheep-walk — as  the  morning  beam, 
Or  the  declining  sunset's  mellower  gleam, 
Lights  up  thy  weather-beaten  turrets  gray  ; 
Still  dost  thou  bear  thee  brav^ely  in  decay, 
As  if  thy  by-gone  glory  were  no  dream  ! 
Yea,  now  with  lingering  grandeur  thou  look'st  down 
From  thy  once  fortified,  embattled  hill. 
As  if  thine  ancient  office  to  fulfil ; — 
And  though  thy  keep  be  but  the  ruin'd  crown 
Of  Orford's  desolate  and  dwindled  town, 
Seem'st  to  assert  thy  sovereign  honour  still. 

Bernard  Barton. 


BV  POETS  OF  THE  PAST. 


I^^^^^HE  butterfly,  which  sports  on  gaudy  wing; 

The  brawHng  brooklet,  lost  in  foam  and  spray. 
As  it  goes  dancing  on  its  idle  way ; 
The  sunflower,  in  broad  daylight  glistening  ; 

Are  types  of  her  who  in  the  festive  ring 
Lives  but  to  bask  in  fashion's  vain  display. 
And  glittering  thro'  her  bright  but  useless  day, 
"  Flaunts,  and  goes  down  a  disregarded  thing  !  " 

Thy  emblem,  Lucy,  is  the  busy  bee. 

Whose  industry  for  future  hours  provides  ; 
The  gentle  streamlet,  gladding  as  it  glides 

Unseen  along, — the  flower  which  gives  the  lea 
Fragrance  and  loveliness,  are  types  of  thee, 
And  of  the  active  worth  thy  modest  merit  hides. 

Bernard  BARTOiN. 


io8  ENGLISH  SONNETS. 


WINTER. 

(To  William  and  Maky  Howitt.) 

INTER  hath  bound  the  brooks  in  icy  chains  ; 
The  bee  that  murmured  in  the  cowslip  bell, 
Now  feasts  securely  in  his  honeyed  cell  ; 


Silence  is  on  the  woods  and  on  the  plains, 
And  darkening  clouds  and  desolating  rains 
Have  marred  your  forest-fountain's  quiet  spell  : 
Yet,  tho'  retired  from  these  awhile  ye  dwell. 
Your  hearts'  best  hoard  of  poesy  remains. 
The  sports  of  childhood,  the  exhaustless  store 
Of  home-born  thoughts  and  feelings  dear  to  each  ; 
Converse,  or  silence  eloquent  as  speech  ; 
History's  rich  page,  tradition's  richer  lore 
Of  tale  and  legend  prized  in  days  of  yore  ; — 
These,  worthy  of  the  Muse,  are  in  your  reach. 

Bernard  Barton. 


By  POSTS  OF  THE  PAST. 


AST  the  grey  tombs  what  space  an  arrow  flies, 
The  darkening  road  winds  down  a  hollow  glade, 
y  Romantic  spot  !  and  sweetly  solemn  made 
By  over-arching  trees  of  giant  size  : 

Above,  Aricia's  battlements  arise. 

As  on  the  branches  of  the  lofty  shade 

The  town  were  based,  with  all  its  long  parade 

Of  domes  and  turrets  basking  in  the  skies. 

More  shadowy  depths  and  varied  tints  of  green 
Not  Vallombrosa  clothe, — here,  stranger,  stay, 
And  on  thy  tablet  spread  the  sylvan  scene  : — 

Nor  charmed  alone  the  prospect's  fair  array  ; 
Old  memories  my  raptures  flashed  between. 
And  peopled  thick  the  silent  Appian  Way. 

Charles  Strong. 

Rome,  1822. 


EXGLlSlf  SO.V.VETS. 


5  this  the  spot  where  Rome's  eternal  foe 
Into  his  snares  the  mighty  legions  drew, 
U  Whence  from  the  carnage,  spiritless  and  few, 


A  remnant  scarcely  reached  her  gates  of  woe  ? 

Is  this  the  stream,  thus  gliding  soft  and  slow, 
That,  from  the  gushing  wounds  of  thousands,  grew 
So  fierce  a  flood,  that  waves  of  crimson  hue 
Rushed  on  the  bosom  of  the  lake  below  ? 

The  mountains  that  gave  back  the  battle-cry 
Are  silent  now  ;  perchance  yon  hillocks  green 
Mark  where  the  bones  of  those  old  warriors  lie. 


Heaven  never  gladdened  a  more  peaceful  scene  ; 
Never  left  softer  breeze  a  fairer  sky 
To  sport  upon  thy  waters,  Thrasymene  ! 

Charles  Strong. 


BV  POETS  OF   THE  PAST. 


ilACING,  as  I  was  wont,  on  day  of  rest, 
Amid  the  Coliseum's  awful  round, 
From  distant  corridor  there  came  a  sound, 
As  of  a  voice  that  published  tidings  blest  : 


Along  the  vaulted  way  I  forward  press'd, 
And  soon  a  group  of  dark-eyed  Romans  found. 
Intent  and  fixed,  like  men  some  spell  had  bound, 
The  Preacher  with  such  power  their  souls  address'd. 

The  words  he  spake,  his  gesture,  and  rapt  look. 
Betokened  one  whom  Heaven  had  rendered  bold 
To  ope  the  treasures  of  the  sacred  book. 


Methought  the  Shepherd  visibly  forsook 
Temples,  where  holy  things  were  bought  and  sold, 
For  two  or  three  thus  gathered  to  his  fold. 

Charles  Strong. 


EXGLISH  SONNETS. 


RE  the  wide  waters  on  my  view  had  smiled, 
From  inland  vale,  in  sunset's  shapeful  hue. 
Oft  Fancy  traced  their  level  line  of  blue, 
And  pictured  cliffs  where  golden  clouds  were  piled  ; 

Often  the  Sea-bird's  wail  my  mind  beguiled, 
I  loved  the  boisterous  home  from  which  they  flew  : 
From  out  dark  pines  when  winds  loud  murmurs  drew, 
Methought  I  heard  the  waves  in  chorus  wild. 

At  length  I  blest  a  Brother's  guiding  hand, 
The  goal  was  reached,  and  as  I  stood  entranced, 
A  new  world  viewing  from  the  lofty  land, 

Sudden — around  the  precipice  that  veils 
The  western  sky,  a  warrior-ship  advanced, — 
On  the  blue  waste  a  Pyramid  of  Sails. 

Charles  Strong. 


BV  POETS  OF   THE  PAST. 


il  WAS  near  the  walls  that  gird  the  imperial  town. 
Where  from  a  lonely  Convent's  still  retreat 
I  saw,  whilst  Tiber  glowed  beneath  my  feet, 
From  heaven's  illumined  vault  the  Sun  go  down  ; 

The  lofty  Capitol,  like  burnished  crown. 
Blazed  on  the  City's  brow, — each  hallowed  seat, 
Each  mournful  relic  of  the  perished  Great, 
Seeined  once  more  brightening  into  old  renown  ; 

The  Plain  in  purple  haze  lay  slumbering  deep, 
The  giant  arches,  that  bestrode  it,  shone 
A  bridge  of  gold  to  blue  Albano's  steep. 

Man,  here  alas  !  for  ages  overthrown. 

With  no  gleam  kindles,  sunk  in  deathlike  sleep. 

His  ruin,  Rome,  is  darker  than  thine  own, 

Charles  Strong. 
I 


ENGLISH  SONNETS. 


THOU  !  whose  golden  reins  curb  Steeds  of  fire. 
Blest  be  the  rosy  hours  that  onward  bring 
Thy  glorious  pomp,  now  Night  with  folded  wing 
Hides  in  her  cave,  and  heaven's  pale  host  retire : 

Fresh  from  their  flowery  beds  the  gales  respire, 
To  rapture  new  awakes  each  living  thing, 
Rivers  run  joyous,  woods  harmonious  ring, 
As  Earth,  unveiling,  shows  her  green  attire. 

Now  Ocean  shines  distinct,  the  bark  unmoors  ; 
Flocks  to  the  dewy  mountains  from  the  fold 
Go  forth,  the  springing  lark  above  them  soars  ; 

And  hopeful  Man,  as  on  thy  state  is  roll'd, 
Welcomes  the  beam  that  o'er  the  cluster  pours 
A  deeper  dye,  and  ripens  fruits  of  gold. 

Charles  Strong. 


BY  POETS  OF  THE  PAST. 


THE   EVENING   CLOUD. 

CLOUD  lay  cradled  near  the  setting  sun  ; 

A  gleam  of  crimson  tinged  its  braided  snow  ; 
Long  had  I  watched  the  glory  moving  on. 
O'er  the  still  radiance  of  the  lake  below ; 
Tranquil  its  spirit  seemed  and  floated  slow  ; 
Even  in  its  very  motion  there  was  rest ; 

While  eveiy  breath  of  eve  that  chanced  to  blow 
Wafted  the  traveller  to  the  beauteous  west. 
Emblem,  methought,  of  the  departed  soul, 

To  whose  white  robe  the  gleam  of  bliss  is  given  ; 
And  by  the  breath  of  mercy  made  to  roll 

Right  onward  to  the  golden  gates  of  Heaven  ; 
Where  to  the  eye  of  Faith  it  peaceful  lies, 
And  tells  to  man  his  glorious  destinies. 

John  Wilson. 


it6  ENGLISH  SONNETS. 


]0  up  among  the  mountains,  when  the  storm 
Of  midnight  howls,  but  go  in  that  wild  mood, 
^     When  the  soul  loves  tumultuous  solitude. 
And  thro'  the  haunted  air,  each  giant  form 

Of  swinging  pine,  black  rock,  or  ghostly  cloud, 
That  veils  some  fearful  cataract  tumbling  loud. 
Seems  to  thy  breathless  heart  with  life  imbued. 

'Mid  those  gaunt  shapeless  things  thou  art  alone  ! ' 
The  mind  exists,  thinks,  trembles  thro'  the  ear, 

The  memory  of  the  human  world  is  gone, 
And  time  and  space  seem  living  only  he7-e. 

O,  worship  thou  the  visions  then  made  known. 
While  sable  glooms  round  Nature's  temple  roll. 
And  her  dread  anthem  peals  into  thy  soul ! 

John  Wilson. 


£V  POETS  OF  THE  PAST. 


THE  TOMB   OF   CHARLEMAGNE. 


MID  the  torch-lit  gloom  of  Aachen's  aisle 
Stood  Otho,  Germany's  imperial  lord, 
Regarding,  with  a  melancholy  smile, 
A  simple  stone,  where,  fitly  to  record 
A  world  of  action  by  a  single  word, 
Was  graven  "  Carlo-Magno."     Regal  style 

Was  needed  none:  that  name  such  thoughts  restored 
As  sadden,  yet  make  nobler  men  the  while. 
They  rolled  the  marble  back  :  with  sudden  gasp 
A  moment  o'er  the  vault  the  Kaiser  bent. 
Where  still  a  mortal  monarch  seemed  to  reign. 
Crowned,  on  his  throne,  a  sceptre  in  his  grasp, 

Perfect  in  each  gigantic  lineament, 
Otho  looked  face  to  face  on  Charlemagne  ! 

.Sir  Aubrey  De  Vere. 


ENGLISH  SONNETS. 


THE   LANDRAIL. 


f^i'EkV.,  wakeful  bird  !    I  bid  thine  accents  hail, 
N     When,  like  the  voice  of  May,  thy  startling  note 
Comes  wandering  up  the  moonlit,  grassy  vale. 
Or  hill  of  springing  corn,  or  reedy  moat ; 
Dearer  I  love  thee  than  the  classic  throat, 
Melodious,  of  the  poet's  nightingale. 
When  her  aerial  numbers  wildly  float, 
Like  fairy  music,  o'er  some  haunted  dale. 
'Tis  thine  to  wake  a  sweeter  harmony, 

Thrilling  the  viewless  chords  of  memorj' : — 
To  come  upon  the  heart  in  silent  hours, 
Touching  each  trembling  pulse  deliciously; 

Recalling  vows  of  youth,  Hope's  budding  flowers. 
And  visions  of  pure  love  in  amaranthine  bowers  I 

Sir  Aubrey  De  Vere. 


BV  POETS  OF  THE  P.-iST. 


TO   GENEVRA. 

iJHY  cheek  is  pale  with  thought,  but  not  from 
woe, 
And  yet  so  lovely,  that  if  mirth  could  flush 
Its  rose  of  whiteness  with  the  brightest  blush, 
My  heart  would  wish  away  that  ruder  glow  ; — 
And  dazzle  not  thy  deep  blue  eyes, — but  oh  ! 
While  gazing  on  them  sterner  eyes  will  gush, 
And  into  mine  my  mother's  weakness  rush. 
Soft  as  the  last  drops  round  heaven's  airy  bow. 
For,  through  thy  long  dark  lashes,  low  depending. 

The  soul  of  melancholy  gentleness 
Gleams  like  a  seraph  from  the  sky  descending. 

Above  all  pain,  yet  pitying  all  distress  ; 
At  once  such  majesty  with  sweetness  blending, 
I  worship  more,  but  cannot  love  thee  less. 

Lord  Byron. 


ENGLISH  SONNETS. 


LAKE   LEMAN. 


OUSSEAU— Voltaire— our   Gibbon— and   De 
Stael— 
Leman !  these  names  are  worthy  of  thy  shore, 
Thy  shore  of  names  like  these  !  wert  thou  no  more 
Their  memory  thy  remembrance  would  recall : 
To  them  thy  banks  were  lovely  as  to  all, 

But  they  have  made  them  lovelier,  for  the  lore 
Of  mighty  minds  doth  hallow  in  the  core 
Of  human  hearts  the  ruin  of  a  wall 
Where  dwelt  the  wise  and  wondrous  ;  but  by  thee 
How  much  more,  Lake  of  Beauty  !  do  we  feel. 
In  sweetly  gliding  o'er  thy  ciystal  sea, 

The  wild  glow  of  that  not  ungentle  zeal, 
Which  of  the  heirs  of  immortality 

Is  proud,  and  makes  the  breath  of  glory  real ! 

Lord  Byron. 


BV  POSTS   OF  THE  PAST. 


CHILLON. 


/ 


TERNAL  Spirit  of  the  chainless  Mind  ! 
Brightest  in  dungeons,  Liberty,  thou  art — 
For  there  thy  habitation  is  the  heart — 
The  heart  which  love  of  thee  alone  can  bind  ; 
And  when  thy  sons  to  fetters  are  consigned, 
To  fetters,  and  the  damp  vault's  dayless  gloom, 
Their  country  conquers  with  their  martyrdom, 
And  Freedom's  fame  finds  wings  on  every  wind. 
Chillon  !  thy  prison  is  a  holy  place. 

And  thy  sad  floor  an  altar,  for  'twas  trod, 
Until  his  very  steps  have  left  a  trace 

Worn  as  if  thy  cold  pavement  were  a  sod. 
By  Bonnivard  !     May  none  those  marks  efface  ! 
For  they  appeal  from  tyranny  to  God. 

Lord  Byron.     /' 


ENGLISH  SONNETS. 


THE   FIRE-FLY. 


^^^^i:ELL  us,  O  Guide,  by  what  strange  natural  laws 
This  winged  flower  throws  out,  night  after 
night, 


Such  lunar  brightness?     Why, — for  what  grave  cause 
Is  this  earth-insect  crowned  with  heavenly  light  ? 

Peace  !     Rest  content !     See  where,  by  cliff  and  dell, 
Past  tangled  forest-paths  and  silent  river. 
The  little  lustrous  creature  guides  us  well. 
And  where  we  fail,  his  small  light  aids  us  ever. 

Night's  charming  servant !     Pretty  star  of  earth  ! 
I  ask  not  why  thy  lamp  doth  ever  bum. 
Perhaps  it  is  thy  very  life, — thy  mind  ; 

And  thou,  if  robbed  of  that  strange  right  of  birth. 
Might  be  no  more  than  IVIan,  when  death  doth  turn 
His  beauty  into  darkness,  cold  and  blind. 

Bryan  Waller  Procter. 


BY  POETS  OF   THE  PAST. 


A   STILL   PLACE. 

^NDER  what  beechen  shade,  or  silent  oak, 

Lies  the  mute  sylvan  now,  mysterious  Pan  ? 
Once,  (while  rich  Peneus  and  Ilissus  ran 
Clear  from  their  fountains,)  as  the  morning  broke, 
'Tis  said  the  Satyr  with  Apollo  spoke. 

And  to  harmonious  strife  with  his  wild  reed 
Challenged  the  god,  whose  music  was  indeed 
Divine,  and  fit  for  heaven.     Each  played,  and  woke 
Beautiful  sounds  to  life, — deep  melodies  ; 
One  blew  his  pastoral  pipe  with  such  nice  care 
That  flocks  and  birds  all  answered  him  ;  and  one 
Shook  his  immortal  showers  upon  the  air. 
That  music  hath  ascended  to  the  sun  ; 
But  where  the  other  ?  Speak,  ye  dells  and  trees  ! 

Bryan  Waller  Procter. 


ENGLISH  SONNETS 


LIFE. 


OME,  track  with  me  this  httle  vagrant  rill, 
Wandering  its  wild  course  from  the  moun- 
tain's breast ; 
Now  with  a  brink  fantastic,  heather-drest, 
And  playing  with  the  stooping  flowers  at  will ;    .. 
Now  moving  scarce,  with  noiseless  step  and  still ; 
Anon  it  seems  to  weary  of  its  rest. 
And  hurries  on,  leaping  with  sparkling  zest 
Adown  the  ledges  of  the  broken  hill. 
So  let  us  live.     Is  not  the  life  well  spent 

Which  loves  the  lot  that  kindly  Nature  weaves 
For  all  inheriting,  or  adorning,  earth  ? 
Which  throws  light  pleasure  over  true  content, 
Blossoms  with  fruitage,  flowers  as  well  as  leaves. 
And  sweetens  wisdom  with  a  taste  of  mirth  ? 

Thomas  Doubleday. 


BV  POETS  OF   THE  PAST. 


E  hasten  to  the  dead  !  What  seek  ye  there, 
Ye  restless  thoughts  and  busy  purposes 
Of  the  idle  brain,  which  the  world's  livery  wear? 

O  thou  quick  heart,  which  pantest  to  possess 

All  that  anticipation  feigneth  fair  ! 

Thou  vainly  curious  mind,  which  wouldest  guess 

Whence  thou  didst  come,  and  whither  thou  mayst  go, 

And  that  which  never  yet  was  known  wouldst  know — 

Oh,  whither  hasten  ye,  that  thus  ye  press 

With  such  swift  feet  life's  green  and  pleasant  path, 

Seeking  alike  from  happiness  and  woe 

A  refuge  in  the  cavern  of  grey  death  ? 

O  heart,  and  mind,  and  thoughts  !  what  thing  do  you 

Hope  to  inherit  in  the  grave  below? 

Percy  Bysshe  Shelley. 


p        .26 


ENGLISH  SONNETS. 


I 


I 


TO   THE   NILE. 


[jONTH  after  month  the  gathered  rains  descend 

Drenching  yon  secret  /Ethiopian  dells, 
ii)  And  from  the  desert's  ice-girt  pinnacles 
Where  Frost  and  Heat  in  strange  embraces  blend 
On  Atlas,  fields  of  moist  snow  half  depend. 
Girt  there  with  blasts  and  meteors  Tempest  dwells 
By  Nile's  aerial  urn,  with  rapid  spells 
Urging  its  waters  to  their  mighty  end. 
O'er  Egypt's  land  of  memory  floods  are  level, 
And  they  are  thine,  O  Nile — and  well  thou  knowest 
That  soul-sustaining  airs  and  blasts  of  evil 
And  fruits  and  poisons  spring  where'er  thou  flowest. 
Beware,  O  Man — for  knowledge  must  to  thee 
Like  the  great  flood  to  Egypt,  ever  be. 

Percy  Bysshe  Shelley. 


BY  POETS  OF  THE  PAST. 


OZYMANDIAS.  ^j 


\ 


MET  a  traveller  from  an  antique  land 
Who  said  :  Two  vast  and  trunkless  legs  of  stone 
Stand  in  the  desert.     Near  them,  on  the  sand, 
Half  sunk,  a  shattered  visage  lies,  whose  frown 
And  wrinkled  lip  and  sneer  of  cold  command 
Tell  that  its  sculptor  well  those  passions  read 
Which  yet  survive,  stamped  on  these  lifeless  things, 
The  hand  that  mocked  them  and  the  heart  that  fed  ; 
And  on  the  pedestal  these  words  appear  : 
'  My  name  is  Ozymandias,  king  of  kings  : 
Look  on  my  works,  ye  mighty,  and  despair  ! ' 
Nothing  beside  remains.     Round  the  decay 
Of  that  colossal  wreck,  boundless  and  bare, 
The  lone  and  level  sands  stretch  far  away. 

Percy  Bysshe  Shelley. 


ENGLISH  SONNETS. 


POLITICAL  GREATNESS. 


OR  happiness,  nor  majesty,  nor  fame. 
Nor  peace,  nor  strength,  nor  skill  in  arms  or 
arts, 


Shepherd  those  herds  whom  tyranny  makes  tame  ; 
Verse  echoes  not  one  beating  of  their  hearts, 
History  is  but  the  shadow  of  their  shame, 
Art  veils  her  glass,  or  from  the  pageant  starts, 
As  to  oblivion  their  blind  millions  fleet, 
Staining  that  heaven  with  obscene  imagery 
Of  their  own  likeness.     What  are  numbers  knit 
By  force  or  custom  ?  Man  who  man  would  be. 
Must  rule  the  empire  of  himself ;  in  it 
Must  be  supreme,  establishing  his  throne 
On  vanquished  will,  quelling  the  anarchy 
Of  hopes  and  fears,  being  himself  alone. 

Percy  Bysshe  Shelley. 


BV  POETS  OF  THE  PAST. 


TO    WORDSWORTH. 

ii^,  OET  of  Nature,  thou  hast  wept  to  know 

That  things  depart  which  never  may  return  ; 
Childhood  and  youth,  friendship   and   love's 
first  glow, 

Have  fled  like  sweet  dreams,  leaving  thee  to  mourn. 

These  common  woes  I  feel.     One  loss  is  mine 

Which  thou  too  feel'st,  yet  I  alone  deplore. 

Thou  wert  as  a  lone  star,  M'hose  light  did  shine 

On  some  frail  bark  in  winter's  midnight  roar  : 

Thou  hast  like  to  a  rock -built  refuge  stood 

Above  the  blind  and  battling  multitude. 

In  honoured  poverty  thy  voice  did  weave 

Songs  consecrate  to  truth  and  liberty, — • 

Deserting  these,  thou  leavest  me  to  grieve. 

Thus  having  been,  that  thou  shouldst  cease  to  be. 

Percy  Bysshe  SniiLLiiv. 


ENGLISH  SONNETS. 


THE   LOVE   OF   GOD. 

(I-) 

^^wf  lOVE  Thee  ! — O  Thou,  the  world's  eternal  Sire  ! 
•^   Whose  palace  is  the  vast  infinity, 
fciyS?^^!  Time,  space,  height,  depth,  O  God  !  are  full  of 
Thee, 
And  sun-eyed  seraphs  tremble  and  admire. 
Eove  Thee  ! — but  Thou  art  girt  with  vengeful  fire, 
And  mountains  quake,  and  banded  nations  flee, 
And  terror  shakes  the  wide  unfathomed  sea, 
When  the  heavens  rock  with  Thy  tempestuous  ire. 
O  Thou  !  too  vast  for  thought  to  comprehend, 
That  wast  ere  time, — shall  be  when  time  is  o'er ; 
Ages  and  worlds  begin — grow  old — and  end ; 
Systems  and  suns  Thy  changeless  throne  before. 
Commence  and  close  their  cycles  : — lost,  I  bend 
To  earth  my  prostrate  soul,  and  shudder,  and  adore ! 
Henry  Hart  Milman. 


£V  POETS  OF   THE  PAST. 


(II.) 


OVE  thee  ! — oh,  clad  in  human  lowliness, 
In  whom  eachheart  its  mortal  kindred  knows — 
Our  flesh,  our  form,  our  tears,  our  pains,  our 
•  woes, — 
A  fellow-wanderer  o'er  earth's  wilderness  ! 
Love  thee  ! — whose  every  word  but  breathes  to  bless  ! 
Through  Thee,  from  long-sealed  lips,  glad  language  flows ; 
The  blind  their  eyes,  that  laugh  with  light,  unclose  ; 
And  babes,  unchid,  Thy  garment's  hem  caress. 
I  see  Thee,  doomed  by  bitterest  pangs  to  die. 
Up  the  sad  hill,  with  willing  footsteps,  move. 
With  scourge,  and  taunt,  and  wanton  agony, 
While  the  cross  nods,  in  hideous  gloom,  above. 

Though  all — even  there — be  radiant  Deity  ! 
— Speechless  I  gaze,  and  my  whole  soul  is  Love  ! 

Henry  Hart  Milman. 


EXGLrS/r  SONNETS. 


HUNTSPILL  TOWER. 

OVE  beyond  cove,  in  faint  and  fainter  line 
I  trace  the  winding  shore,  and  dream  I  hear 
The  distant  billows  where  they  break  and  shine 
On  the  dark  isles.     Around  us,  far  and  near, 
The  bright  gay  breeze  is  sweeping  cheerily, 
Chequering  the  green  moor,  like  the  summer  field 
Of  ocean,  with  the  shadows  of  the  sky. 
In  all  their  graceful  majesty  revealed, 
Now  purple-shaded,  now  in  playful  light, 
To  south  and  north  the  glorious  hills  are  seen  ; 
Where  hovering  fancy  may  at  will  alight 
By  pastoral  dingle,  or  deep  rocky  screen. 
Such  airs,  light  sallies  of  thy  cheerful  heart, 
A  living  joy,  dear  friend,  to  all  impart. 

JoHiN  Keble. 


£y  POETS  OF    THE  PAST. 


OXFORD. 


(From  Bagley,  at  8  a.m.) 


HE  flood  is  round  thee,  but  thy  towers  as  yet 
|/|     Are  safe,  and  clear  as  by  a  summer's  sea 
Pierce  the  calm  morning  mist,  serene  and  free, 


To  point  in  silence  heavenward.     There  are  met 
Thy  foster-children  ; — there  in  order  set 

Their  nursing-fathers,  sworn  to  Heaven  and  thee 
(An  oath  renewed  this  hour  on  bended  knee,) 
Ne'er  to  betray  their  Mother  nor  forget. — 
Lo  !  on  the  top  of  each  aerial  spire 
What  seems  a  star  by  day,  so  high  and  bright, 
It  quivers  from  afar  in  golden  light  : 
But  'tis  a  form  of  earth,  though  touched  with  fire 
Celestial,  raised  in  other  days  to  tell 
How,  when  they  tired  of  prayer.  Apostles  fell. 

John  Kebi.e. 


ENGLISH  SONNETS. 


AT  HOOKER'S  TOMB. 


rs; 


'(<~i^^j  HE  grey-eyed  Mom  was  saddened  with  a  shower, 
.  .^  71  VJMJ  ^  silent  shower,  that  trickled  down  so  still 


Scarce  drooped  beneath  its  weight  the  tenderest 
flower, 
Scarce  could  you  trace  it  on  the  twinkling  rill, 
Or  moss-stone  bathed  in  dew.     It  was  an  hour 
Most  meet  for  prayer  beside  thy  lowly  grave, 
Most  for  thanksgiving  meet,  that  Heaven  such  power 
To  thy  serene  and  humble  spirit  gave. 
'  Who  sow  good  seed  with  tears  shall  reap  in  joy.' 
So  thought  I  as  I  watched  the  gracious  rain, 
And  deemed  it  like  that  silent  sad  employ 
Whence  sprung  thy  glor}-'s  harvest,  to  remain 
For  ever.     God  hath  sworn  to  lift  on  high 
Who  sinks  himself  by  true  humility. 

John  Keble. 


£y  POETS  OF   THE  PAST. 


THE  THRUSH'S  NEST. 


[THIN  a  thick  and  spreading  hawthorn  liush, 
That  overhung  a  molehill  large  and  round, 
I  heard  from  morn  to  morn  a  merry  thrush 
Sing  hymns  to  sunrise,  and  I  drank  the  sound 
With  joy  ;  and,  often  an  intruding  guest, 
I  watched  her  secret  toils  from  day  to  day, — 
How  true  she  warped  the  moss  to  form  a  nest. 
And  modelled  it  within  with  wood  and  clay  ; 
And  by  and  by,  like  heath-bells  gilt  with  dew, 
There  lay  her  shining  eggs,  as  bright  as  flowers, 
Ink-spotted-over,  shells  of  greeny  blue  ; 
And  there  I  witnessed,  in  the  sunny  hours, 
A  brood  of  Nature's  minstrels  chirp  and  fly, 
Glad  as  that  sunshine  and  the  laughing  sky. 

John  Clare. 


136  ENGLISH  SONNETS. 


FLIGHT  OF  THE  SPIRIT. 


HITHER,  oh  !  whither  wilt  thou  wing  thy  way? 
What  solemn  region  first  upon  thy  sight 
Shall  break,  unveiled  for  terror  or  delight  ? — 
What  hosts,  magnificent  in  dread  array, 
My  spirit  !  when  thy  prison-house  of  clay. 

After  long  strife  is  rent  ?    F'ond,  fruitless  quest ! 
Tlie  unfledged  bird,  within  his  nan-ow  nest. 
Sees  but  a  few  green  branches  o'er  him  play. 
And  through  their  parting  leaves,  by  fits  revealed, 
A  glimpse  of  summer  sky  ;  nor  knows  the  field 

Wherein  his  dormant  powers  must  yet  be  tried. 
Thou  art  that  bird  ! — of  what  beyond  thee  lies 
Far  in  the  untracked  immeasurable  skies. 

Knowing  but  this — that  thou  shalt  find  thy  Guide. 

Felicia  Hemans. 


BV  POETS  OF  THE  PAST.  137 


THE   HUMAN   SEASONS. 


S5j(|jOUR  Seasons  fill  the  measure  of  the  year  ; 
^^j^      There  are  four  seasons  in  the  mind  of  man  : 
Srv®J  He  has  his  lusty  Spring,  when  fancy  clear 

Takes  in  all  beauty  with  an  easy  span  : 
He  has  his  Summer,  when  luxuriously 

Spring's  honey'd  cud  of  youthful  thought  he  loves 
To  ruminate,  and  by  such  dreaming  high 

Is  nearest  unto  heaven  :  quiet  coves 
His  soul  has  in  its  Autumn,  when  his  wings 

He  furleth  close  ;  contented  so  to  look 
On  mists  in  idleness — to  let  fair  things 

Pass  by  unheeded  as  a  threshold  brook. 
He  has  his  Winter,  too,  of  pale  misfeature. 
Or  else  he  would  forego  his  mortal  nature. 

John  Keats. 


138  ENGLISH  SONNETS. 


\f 


ON   THE   GRASSHOPPER   AND   CRICKET. 


HE  poetry  of  earth  is  never  dead  : 
When  all  the  birds  are  faint  with  the  hot  sun, 
^   And  hide  in  cooling  trees,  a  voice  will  run 
From  hedge  to  hedge  about  the  new -mown  mead  : 
This  is  the  grasshopper's — he  takes  the  lead 
In  summer  luxury, — he  has  never  done 
With  his  delights,  for  when  tired  out  with  fun, 
He  rests  at  ease  beneath  some  pleasant  weed. 
The  poetry  of  earth  is  ceasing  never : 

On  a  lone  winter  evening,  when  the  frost 
Has  wrought  a  silence,  from  the  stove  there  shrills 
The  cricket's  song,  in  warmth  increasing  ever, 
And  seems  to  one  in  drowsiness  half  lost, 
The  grasshopper's  among  some  grassy  hills. 

John  Keats. 


£y  POETS  OF   THE  PAST. 


ON   FIRST  LOOKING  INTO   CHAPMAN'S 
HOMER. 


9J'-f').  UCH  have  I  travelled  in  the  realms  of  gold, 


lY^Ui/^l 


And  many  goodly  states  and  kingdoms  seen  ; 


|Aa^/-^^t|     Round  many  western  islands  have  I  been 
Which  bards  in  fealty  to  Apollo  hold. 
Oft  of  one  wide  expanse  had  I  been  told 

That  deep-browed  Homer  ruled  as  his  demesne  : 

Yet  did  I  never  breathe  its  pure  serene 
Till  I  heard  Chapman  speak  out  loud  and  bold  : 
Then  felt  I  like  some  watcher  of  the  skies 

When  a  new  planet  swims  into  his  ken  ; 
Or  like  stout  Cortez  when  with  eagle  eyes 

He  stared  at  the  Pacific — and  all  his  men 
Looked  at  each  other  with  a  wild  surmise — 

Silent,  upon  a  peak  in  Darien. 

John  Keats.      / 


7 


EXGLISH  SONNETS. 


ADDRESSED   TO   HAYDON. 

ijREAT  spirits  now  on  earth  are  sojourning  : 

He  of  the  cloud,  the  cataract,  the  lake, 

Who  on  Helvellyn's  summit,  wide  awake, 

Catches  his  freshness  from  Archangel's  wing  : 

He  of  the  rose,  the  violet,  the  spring. 

The  social  smile,  the  chain  for  Freedom's  sake  : 

And  lo  !  whose  steadfastness  would  never  take 

A  meaner  sound  than  Raphael's  whispering. 

And  other  spirits  there  are  standing  apart 

Upon  the  forehead  of  the  age  to  come  ; 

These,  these  will  give  the  world  another  heart 

And  other  pulses.     Hear  ye  not  the  hum 

Of  mighty  workings  ? — 

Listen  awhile,  ye  nations,  and  be  dumb. 

John  Keats. 
/ 
J  J 


y 


£V  POETS  OF   THE  PAST. 


\ 


O  one  who  has  been  long  in  city  pent, 
'Tis  very  sweet  to  look  into  the  fair 
And  open  face  of  heaven, — to  breathe  a  prayer 
Full  in  the  smile  of  the  blue  firmament. 
Who  is  more  happy,  when,  with  heart's  content, 
Fatigued  he  sinks  into  some  pleasant  lair 
Of  wavy  grass,  and  reads  a  debonair 
And  gentle  tale  of  love  and  languishment  ? 
Returning  home  at  evening,  with  an  ear 

Catching  the  notes  of  Philomel, — an  eye 
Watching  the  sailing  cloudlet's  bright  career, 
He  mourns  that  day  so  soon  has  glided  by  : 
E'en  like  the  passage  of  an  angel's  tear 
That  falls  through  the  clear  ether  silently. 

John  Keats. 


EXGLrSH  SONNETS. 


SOLITUDE  !  if  I  must  with  thee  dwell, 
Let  it  not  be  among  the  jumbled  heap 
Of  murky  buildings  :    climb  with  me  the 
steep, — 
Nature's  observatory — whence  the  dell, 
In  flowery  slopes,  its  river's  crystal  swell. 
May  seem  a  span  ;  let  me  thy  vigils  keep 
'Mongst  boughs  pavilioned,  where  the  deer's  swift  leajj 
Startles  the  wild  bee  from  the  foxglove  bell. 
But  though  I'll  gladly  trace  these  scenes  with  thee. 
Yet  the  sweet  converse  of  an  innocent  mind, 
Whose  words  are  images  of  thoughts  refined. 
Is  my  soul's  pleasure  ;  and  it  sure  must  be 
Almost  the  highest  bliss  of  human-kind. 
When  to  thy  haunts  two  kindred  spirits  flee. 

John  Keats. 


BV  POETS  OF   THE  PAST. 


/ 


':  APPY  is  England !    I  could  be  content 
To  see  no  other  verdure  than  its  own  ; 
To  feel  no  other  breezes  than  are  blown 
Through  its  tall  woods  with  high  romances  blent : 
Yet  do  I  sometimes  feel  a  languishment 
For  skies  Italian,  and  an  inward  groan 
To  sit  upon  an  Alp  as  on  a  throne, 
And  half  forget  what  world  or  worldling  meant. 
Happy  is  England,  sweet  her  artless  daughters  ; 

Enough  their  simple  loveliness  for  me, 
Enough  their  whitest  arms  in  silence  clinging  : 

Yet  do  I  often  warmly  burn  to  see 
Beauties  of  deeper  glance,  and  hear  their  singing, 
And  float  with  them  about  the  summer  waters. 

John  Keats. 


EXGLlSn  soy. VETS. 


I 


\ 


TO   SLEEP. 


SOFT  embalmer  of  the  still  midnight  ! 

Shutting  with  careful  fingers  and  benign. 
Our  gloom-pleased  eyes,  embowered  from  the 
light, 
Enshaded  in  forgetfulness  divine  : 
O  soothest  sleep  !  if  so  it  please  thee,  close, 

In  midst  of  this  thine  hymn,  my  willing  eyes, 
Or  wait  the  amen,  ere  thy  poppy  throws, 
Around  my  bed  its  lulling  charities  ; 
Then  save  me,  or  the  passed  day  will  shine 
Upon  my  pillow,  breeding  many  woes  ; 
Save  me  from  curious  conscience,  that  still  lords 

Its  strength,  for  darkness  burrowing  like  a  mole  ; 
Turn  the  key  deftly  in  the  oiled  wards. 
And  seal  the  hushed  casket  of  my  soul. 

John  Keats.  ' 


BV  POETS  OF  THE  PAST. 


\ 

KEATS'S   LAST   SONNET.  / 

BRIGHT  star !  would  I  were  steadfast  as  thou 
art— 
Not  in  lone  splendour  hung  aloft  the  night, 
And  watching,  with  eternal  lids  apart, 

Like  Nature's  patient  sleepless  Eremite, 
The  moving  waters  at  their  priestlike  task 

Of  pure  ablution  round  earth's  human  shores. 
Or  gazing  on  the  new  soft  fallen  mask 

Of  snow  upon  the  mountains  and  the  moors.  — 
No — yet  still  steadfast,  still  unchangeable. 

Pillowed  upon  my  fair  love's  ripening  breast, 
To  feel  for  ever  its  soft  fall  and  swell, 
Awake  for  ever  in  a  sweet  unrest ; 
Still,  still  to  hear  her  tender-taken  breath, 
And  so  live  ever — or  else  swoon  to  death. 

John  Keats. 


146  ENGLISH  SONNETS. 


LIBERTY. 

^iAY,  What  is  Freedom?  What  the  right  of  souls 
Which  all  who  know  are  bound  to  keep,  or  die, 
And  who  knows  not,  is  dead  ?    In  vain  ye  pry 
In  musty  archives,  or  retentive  scrolls. 
Charters  and  statutes,  constitutions,  rolls, 
And  remnants  of  the  old  world's  history  : — 
These  show  what  has  been,  not  what  ought  to  be, 
Or  teach  at  best  how  wiser  Time  controls 
Man's  futile  purposes.     As  vain  the  search 
Of  restless  factions,  who,  in  lawless  will. 
Fix  the  foundations  of  a  creedless  church — 

A  lawless  rule — an  anarchy  of  ill  : 
But  what  is  Freedom?  Rightly  understood, 
A  universal  license  to  be  good. 

Hartley  Coleridge. 


£y  POETS  OF   THE  PAST. 


MAY,    1840. 

LOVELY  morn,  so  still,  so  very  still, 
It  hardly  seenis  a  growing  day  of  Spring, 
Though  all  the  odorous  buds  are  blossoming, 
And  the  small  matin  birds  were  glad  and  shrill 
Some  hours  ago  ;  but  now  the  woodland  rill 
Murmurs  along,  the  only  vocal  thing, 
Save  when  the  wee  wren  flits  with  stealthy  wing, 
And  cons  by  fits  and  bits  her  evening  trill. 
Lovers  might  sit  on  such  a  morn  as  this. 
An  hour  together,  looking  at  the  sky, 
Nor  dare  to  break  the  silence  with  a  kiss, 
Long  listening  for  the  signal  of  a  sigh  ; 
And  the  sweet  Nun,  diffused  in  voiceless  prayer, 
Feel  her  own  soul  through  all  the  brooding  air. 

Hartley  CoLEkiiH;i£. 


148  ENGLISH  SONNETS. 


NOVEMBER. 


Sw  The  little  birds  have  almost  sung  their  last, 

m 

Their  small  notes  twitter  in  the  dreary  blast- 
That  shrill-piped  harbinger  of  early  snows  ; 
The  patient  beauty  of  the  scentless  rose, 

Oft  with  the  morn's  hoar  crystal  quaintly  glassed, 

Hangs,  a  pale  mourner  for  the  summer  past, 
And  makes  a  little  summer  where  it  grows  : 
In  the  chill  sunbeam  of  the  faint  brief  day 

The  dusky  waters  shudder  as  they  shine. 
The  russet  leaves  obstnict  the  straggling  way 

Of  oozy  brooks,  which  no  deep  banks  define, 
And  the  gaunt  woods,  in  ragged  scant  array, 

Wrap  their  old  limbs  with  sombre  ivy-twine. 

Hartley  Coleridge. 


BV  POETS  OF  THE  PAST. 


TO  A  DEAF  AND  DUMB  LITTLE  GIRL. 

IKE  a  loose  island  on  the  wide  expanse, 
Unconscious  floating  on  the  fickle  sea, 
Herself  her  all,  she  lives  in  privacy  ; 
Her  waking  life  as  loiiely  as  a  trance, 
Doomed  to  behold  the  universal  dance, 
And  never  hear  the  music  which  expounds 
The  solemn  step,  coy  slide,  the  merry  bounds, 
The  vague,  mute  language  of  the  countenance. 
In  vain  for  her  I  smooth  my  antic  rhyme ; 
She  cannot  hear  it,  all  her  little  being 
Concentred  in  her  solitary  seeing — 
What  can  she  know  of  beauteous  or  sublime  ? 
And  yet  methinks  she  looks  so  calm  and  good, 
God  must  be  with  her  in  her  solitude. 

Hartley  Coleridge. 


ENGLISH  SONNETS. 


1 


HEN  we  were  idlers  with  the  loitering  rills, 
The  need  of  human  love  we  little  noted  : 
Our  love  was  nature :  and  the  peace  that  floated 
On  the  white  mist,  and  dwelt  upon  the  hills. 
To  sweet  accord  subdued  our  wayward  wills  : 
One  soul  was  ours,  one  mind,  one  heart  devoted 
That  wisely  doating  asked  not  why  it  doated. 
And  ours  the  unknown  joy  which  knowing  kills. 

Rut  now  I  find  how  dear  thou  wert  to  me  ; 
That  man  is  more  than  half  of  nature's  treasure, 

Of  that  fair  beauty  which  no  eye  can  see. 
Of  that  sweet  music  which  no  ear  can  measure  ; 
And  now  the  streams  may  sing  for  others'  pleasure. 
The  hills  sleep  on  in  their  eternity. 

Hartley  Coleridge. 


BV  POETS  OF   THE  PAST. 


TO   A    LOFTY    BEAUTY    FROM    HER   POOR 

KINSMAN. 


AIR  maid,  had  I  not  heard  thy  baby  cries, 
3^^j       Nor  seen  thy  girlish,  sweet  vicissitude, 
Thy  mazy  motions,  striving  to  elude. 


Yet  wooing  still  a  parent's  watchful  eyes, 

Thy  humours,  many  as  the  opal's  dyes. 

And  lovely  all ; — methinks  thy  scornful  mood. 
And  bearing  high  of  stately  womanhood, — 

Thy  brow,  where  Beauty  sits  to  tyrannize 

O'er  humble  love,  had  made  me  sadly  fear  thee  ; 
For  never  sure  was  seen  a  royal  bride 
Whose  gentleness  gave  grace  to  so  much  pride, — 

My  very  thoughts  would  tremble  to  be  near  thee  ; 
But  when  I  see  thee  at  thy  father's  side, 

Old  times  unqueen  thee,  and  old  loves  endear  thee. 

Hartley  Coi.kridge. 


ENGLISH  SONNETS. 


THE   FIRST    MAN. 

HAT  was't  awakened  first  the  untried  car 
Of  that  sole  man  who  was  all  human  kind  ? 
Was  it  the  gladsome  welcome  of  the  wind, 
Stirring  the  leaves  that  never  yet  were  sere  ? 
The  four  mellifluous  streams  which  flowed  so  near, 
Their  lulling  murmurs  all  in  one  combined  ? 
The  note  of  bird  unnamed  ?  The  startled  hind 
Bursting  the  brake — in  wonder,  not  in  fear, 
Of  her  new  lord  ?    Or  did  the  holy  ground 
Send  forth  mysterious  melody  to  greet 
The  gracious  pressure  of  immaculate  feet  ? 
Did  viewless  seraphs  rustle  all  around, 

Making  sweet  music  out  of  air  as  sweet  ? 
Or  his  own  voice  awake  him  with  its  sound  ? 

Hartley  Coleridge. 


£V  POETS  OF   THE  PAST. 


A   CONFESSION. 


/ 


ONG  time  a  child,  and  still  a  child,  when  )'ears 
Had  painted  manhood  on  my  cheek,  was  I ; 
For  yet  I  lived  like  one  not  born  to  die  : 


A  thriftless  prodigal  of  smiles  and  tears. 
No  hope  I  needed,  and  I  knew  no  fears. 

But  sleep,  though  sweet,  is  only  sleep  ;  and  waking 

I  waked  to  sleep  no  more  ;  at  once  o'ertaking 
The  vanguard  of  my  age,  with  all  arrears 
Of  duty  on  my  back.     Nor  child,  nor  man. 

Nor  youth,  nor  sage,  I  find  my  head  is  grey. 
For  I  have  lost  the  race  I  never  ran — 

A  rathe  December  blights  my  lagging  May  ; 
And  still  I  am  a  child,  though  I  be  old  : 
Time  is  my  debtor  for  my  years  untold. 

Hartley  Coleridge. 


ENGLISH  SOX  NETS. 


HOMER. 

]  AR  from  the  sight  of  earth,  yet  bright  and  plain 
As  the  clear  noon-day  sun,  an  '  orb  of  song' 
Lovely  and  bright  is  seen  amid  the  throng 
Of  lesser  stars,  that  rise,  and  wax,  and  wane, 
The  transient  rulers  of  the  fickle  main  ; 

One  constant  light  gleams  thro'  the  dark  and  long 
And  narrow  aisle  of  memory.     How  strong, 
How  fortified  with  all  the  numerous  train 
Of  truths  wert  thou,  great  poet  of  mankind, 
Who  told'st  in  verse  as  mighty  as  the  sea, 
And  various  as  the  voices  of  the  wind. 
The  strength  of  passion  rising  in  the  glee 
Of  battle.     Fear  was  glorified  by  thee, 
And  Death  is  lovely  in  thy  tale  enshrined. 

Hartley  Coleridge. 


i?}'  POETS  OF   THE  PAST.  isS 


HITHER  is  gone  the  wisdoin  and  the  power 
That  ancient  sages  scattered  with  the  notes 
Of  thought-suggesting  lyres  ?  The  music  floats 


In  the  void  air  ;  even  at  this  breathing  hour, 
In  every  cell  and  eveiy  blooming  bower 

The  sweetness  of  old  lays  is  hovering  still ; 

But  the  strong  soul,  the  self-constraining  will, 
The  rugged  root  that  bare  the  winsome  flower 
Is  weak  and  withered.     Were  we  like  the  Fays 

That  sweetly  nestle  in  the  foxglove  bells, 

Or  lurk  and  murmur  in  the  rose-lipped  shells 
\Vhich  Neptune  to  the  earth  for  quit-rent  pays, 

Then  might  our  pretty  modern  Philomels 
Sustain  our  spirits  with  their  roundelays. 

Hartley  Coleridge. 


»56 


EXGLJSH  SONNETS. 


TO   A   FRIEND. 


E  parted  on  the  mountains,  as  two  streams 
From  one  clear  spring  pursue  their  several 
ways ; 

And  thy  fleet  course  hath  been  thro'  many  a  maze 
In  foreign  lands,  where  silvery  Padus  gleams 
To  that  delicious  sky,  whose  glowing  beams 
Brightened  the  tresses  that  old  poets  praise  ; 
Where  Petrarch's  patient  love  and  artful  lays, 
And  Ariosto's  song  of  many  themes. 
Moved  the  soft  air.     But  I,  a  lazy  brook, 
As  close  pent  up  within  my  native  dell, 
Have  crept  along  from  nook  to  shady  nook. 

Where  flow'rets  blow,  and  whispering  Naiads  dwell. 
Yet  now  we  meet,  that  parted  were  so  wide. 
O'er  rough  and  smooth  to  travel  side  by  side. 

Hartley  Coleridge. 


BY  POETS  OF  THE  PAST. 


THE   LONE  THORN. 

ENEATH  the  scant  shade  of  an  aged  thorn, 
Silvered  with  age,  and  mossy  with  decay, 
I  stood,  and  there  bethought  me  of  its  morn 
Of  verdant  lustyhood,  long  passed  away  ; 
Of  its  meridian  vigour,  now  outworn 
By  cankering  years,  and  by  the  tempest's  sway 
Bared  to  the  pitying  glebe. — Companionless, 
Stands  the  gray  thorn  complaining  to  the  wind — 
Of  all  the  old  wood's  leafy  loveliness 
The  sole  memorial  that  lags  behind ; 
Its  compeers  perished  in  their  youthfulness, 
Though  round  the  earth  their  roots  seem'd  firmly  twined  ; 
How  sad  it  is  to  be  so  anchored  here 
As  to  outlive  one's  mates,  and  die  without  a  tear  ! 
William  Motherwell. 


158  EXGLISH  SON  NETS. 


AUTUMN. 


OW  bravely  Autumn  paints  upon  the  sky 
The  gorgeous  fame  of  summer  which  is  fled  ! 
Hues  of  all  flowers  that  in  their  ashes  lie, 
Trophied  in  that  fair  light  whereon  they  fed, 
Tulip,  and  hyacinth,  and  sweet  rose  red, — 
Like  exhalations  from  the  leafy  mould, 
Look  here  how  honour  glorifies  the  dead, 
And  warms  their  scutcheons  with  a  glance  of  gold  ! 
Such  is  the  memory  of  poets  old, 
Who  on  Parnassus  hill  have  bloomed  elate  ; 
Now  they  are  laid  under  their  marbles  cold. 
And  turned  to  clay,  whereof  they  were  create  ; 
But  god  Apollo  hath  them  all  enrolled, 
And  blazoned  on  the  very  clouds  of  fate, 

Thomas  Hood. 


£F  POETS  OF   THE  PAST. 


SILENCE.  *  ,/ 


A 


HERE  is  a  silence  where  hath  been  no  sound, 
There  is  a  silence  where  no  sound  may  be, 
In  the  cold  grave — under  the  deep,  deep  sea, 
Or  in  wide  desert  where  no  life  is  found. 
Which  hath  been  mute  and  still  must  sleep  profound  ; 
No  voice  is  hushed — no  life  treads  silently, 
But  clouds  and  cloudy  shadows  wander  free. 
That  never  spoke,  over  the  idle  ground  : 
But  in  green  ruins,  in  the  desolate  walls 

Of  antique  palaces,  where  Man  hath  been. 
Though  the  dun  fox,  or  wild  hyena  calls. 
And  owls,  that  flit  continually  between. 
Shriek  to  the  echo,  and  the  low  winds  moan, 
There  the  true  Silence  is,  self-conscious  and  alone. 

Thomas  Hood. 


i6o  ENGLISH  SONNETS. 


I 


T  is  not  death,  that  sometime  in  a  sigh 

This  eloquent  breath  shall  take  its  speech- 
less flight ; 

That  sometime  these  bright  stars,  that  now  reply 
In  sunlight  to  the  sun,  shall  set  in  night ; 
That  this  warm  conscious  flesh  shall  perish  quite, 
And  all  life's  ruddy  springs  forget  to  flow ; 
That  thoughts  shall  cease,  and  the  immortal  sprite 
Be  lapped  in  alien  clay  and  laid  below ; 
It  is  not  death  to  know  this, — but  to  know 

That  pious  thoughts,  which  visit  at  new  graves 
In  tender  pilgrimage,  will  cease  to  go 

So  duly  and  so  oft, — and  when  grass  waves 
Over  the  past-away,  there  may  be  then 
No  resurrection  in  the  minds  of  men. 

Thomas  Hood. 


BV  POETS  OF   THE  PAST. 


A   SONNET  TO  A  SONNET.* 

ARE  composition  of  a  poet-knight, 
Most  chivalrous  amongst  chivalric  men, 
Distinguished  for  a  polish 'd  lance  and  pen 
In  tuneful  contest  and  in  tourney-fight ; 
Lustrous  in  scholarship,  in  honour  bright, 
Accomplished  in  all  graces  current  then, 
Humane  as  any  in  historic  ken, 
Brave,  handsome,  noble,  affable,  polite  ; 
Most  courteous  to  that  race  become  of  late 
So  fiercely  scornful  of  all  kind  advance, 
Rude,  bitter,  coarse,  implacable  in  hate. 
To  Albion,  plotting  ever  her  mischance, — 
Alas,  fair  verse  !  how  false  and  out  of  date 
Thy  phrase  "  sweet  enemy"  applied  to  France  ! 

Thomas  Hood. 

■  See  page  6. 
M 


i62  ENGLISH  SONNETS. 


JOY    IN    SORROW. 

]IVE  me  thy  joy  in  sorrow,  gracious  Lord, 
And  sorrow's  self  shall  like  to  joy  appear  ! 
Although  the  world  should  waver  in  its  sphere 
I  tremble  not  if  Thou  thy  peace  afford  ; 
But,  Thou  withdrawn,  I  am  but  as  a  chord 
That  vibrates  to  the  pulse  of  hope  and  fear  : 
Nor  rest  I  more  than  harj^s  which  to  the  air 
Must  answer  when  we  place  their  tuneful  board 
Against  the  blast, —  which  thrill  unmeaning  woe 
Even  in  their  sweetness.     So  no  earthly  wing 
E'er  sweeps  me  but  to  sadden.     Oh,  place  Thou 

My  heart  beyond  the  world's  sad  vibrating— 
And  where  but  in  Thyself?     Oh,  circle  me 
That  I  may  feel  no  touches  save  of  Thee. 

Chauncy  Hare  Townshend. 


£y  POETS  OF   THE  PAST.  163 


HIDDEN  JOYS. 


/ 


N^T^^iLEASURES  lie  thickest  where  no  pleasures 

~ii^)  )vvJ 

seem  : 


There's  not  a  leaf  that  falls  upon  the  ground 
But  holds  some  joy,  of  silence  or  of  sound, 
Some  sprite  begotten  of  a  summer  dream. 

The  very  meanest  things  are  made  supreme 
With  innate  ecstasy.     No  grain  of  sand 
But  moves  a  bright  and  million-peopled  land, 
And  hath  its  Edens  and  its  Eves,  I  deem. 

For  Love,  though  blind  himself,  a  curious  eye 
Hath  lent  me,  to  behold  the  hearts  of  things. 
And  touched  mine  ear  v/iih  power.     Thus,  far  or  nigh, 

Minute  or  mighty,  fixed  or  free  with  wings. 
Delight  from  many  a  nameless  covert  sly 
Peeps  sparkling,  and  in  tones  familiar  sings. 

Samuel  Laman  Blanchard. 


i64 


ENGLISH  SONNETS. 


I 


I 


"PATER   VESTER   PASCIT   ILLA." 
UR  bark  is  on  the  waters  !  wide  around 


The  wandering  wave;  above,  the  lonely  sky: 
Hush  !  a  young  sea-bird  floats,  and  that  quick 
cry 
Shrieks  to  the  levelled  weapon's  echoing  sound : 
Grasp  its  lank  wing,  and  on,  with  reckless  bound ! 
Yet,  creature  of  the  surf,  a  sheltering  breast 
To-night  shall  haunt  in  vain  thy  far-off  nest, 
A  call  unanswered  search  the  rocky  ground. 
Lord  of  Leviathan  !  when  Ocean  heard 

Thy  gathering  voice,  and  sought  his  native  breeze  ; 
When  whales  first  plunged  with  life,  and  the  proud  deep 
Felt  unborn  tempests  heave  in  troubled  sleep. 
Thou  didst  provide,  even  for  this  nameless  bird. 
Home  and  a  natural  love  amid  the  surging  seas. 

Robert  Stephen  Hawker. 


BV  POETS  OF   THE  PAST.  165 


i 


THE   TWAIN. 

WO  sunny  children  wandered,  hand  in  hand, 


I^M,^^     By  the  bhie  waves  of  far  Gennesaret, 
«^^^Sijl     For  there  their  Syrian  father  drew  the  net. 
With  multitudes  of  fishes,  to  the  land  ! 

One  was  the  Twin  !  even  he  whose  blessed  name 
Hath  in  ten  thousand  shrines  this  day  a  fame, — 
Thomas  the  Apostle, — one  of  the  ethereal  band  ! 
But  he,  his  Hebrew  brother,  who  can  trace 
His  name,  the  city  where  he  dwelt,  his  place. 
Or  grave  ?     We  know  not,  none  may  understand  : 
There  were  two  brethren  in  the  field  :  the  one 
Shall  have  no  memory  underneath  the  sun, — 
The  other  shines,  beacon  of  many  a  strand, 
A  star  upon  the  brow  of  night,  here  in  the  rocky  land  ! 
Robert  Stephen  Hawker. 


ENGL  IS  J  r  SONNETS. 


LOVE. 

EART  of  my  heart !  of  Love  let  us  commune, 
And  tell  me  'how  it  comes?'  and  'what  it  is?' 
"Love  comes!  and  it  is  there  replete  with  bliss; 
A  sun  of  light,  bringing  eternal  noon. 
New  life  to  life  ;  new  powers,  fresh  flowers,  its  boon." 
But  what  in  sooth?     "Two  souls  in  sweet  accord. 
Each  for  each  caring  and  each  self  unheard, 
Bringing  life's  discords  into  perfect  tune  ; 
True  to  true  feeling,  and  to  nature  living. 

Plighting  no  faith,  nor  needing  proof  nor  proving. 
Taking  for  granted,  never  asking,  giving. 

Not  doubting  and  not  fearing  '  how  '  or  '  where  ; ' 
Not  caring  if  less  bright  or  young  or  fair, 
Sure  to  be  ever  loved,  and  sure  of  loving." 

Helena  C.  Von  Ranke. 


BV  POETS   OF  THE  PAST. 


167 


THE   LATTICE   AT   SUNRISE. 


iiS  on  my  bed  at  dawn  I  mused  and  prayed, 
I  saw  my  lattice  prankt  upon  the  wall, 
The  flaunting  leaves  and  flitting  birds  withal — 
A  sunny  phantom  interlaced  with  shade  ; 
'  Thanks  be  to  heaven  ! '  in  happy  mood  I  said, 

'  What  sweeter  aid  my  matins  could  befall 
Than  this  fair  glory  from  the  East  hath  made  ? 

What  holy  sleights  hath  God,  the  Lord  of  all, 
To  bid  us  feel  and  see  !  we  are  not  free 

To  say  we  see  not,  for  the  glory  comes 
Nightly  and  daily,  like  the  flowing  sea  ; 

His  lustre  pierceth  through  the  midnight  glooms  ; 
And  at  prime  hour,  behold  !  He  follows  me 
U'ilh  golden  shadows  to  my  secret  rooms  ! ' 

Charles  Tennyson  Turner. 


/ 


y 


y 


ENGLISH  SONNETS. 


ON    STARTLING    SOME   PIGEONS. 

HUNDRED  wings  are  dropt  as  soft  as  one, 
Now  ye  are  lighted  !    Pleasing  to  my  sight 
The  fearful  circle  of  your  wondering  flight, 
Rapid  and  loud,  and  drawing  homeward  soon  ; 
And  then,  the  sober  chiding  of  your  tone, 
As  there  ye  sit,  from  your  own  roofs  arraigning 
jMy  trespass  on  your  haunts,  so  boldly  done, 
Sounds  like  a  solemn  and  a  just  complaining  : 
O  happy,  happy  race  !  for  though  there  clings 
A  feeble  fear  about  your  timid  clan. 
Yet  are  ye  blest !  with  not  a  thought  that  brings 
Disquietude, — while  proud  and  sorrowing  man, 
An  eagle,  weary  of  his  mighty  wings, 
With  anxious  inquest  fills  his  mortal  span  ! 

Charles  Tennyson  Turner. 


BY  POETS  OF  THE  PAST.  169 


TIME   AND   TWILIGHT. 


N  the  dark  twilight  of  an  autumn  morn, 
I  stood  within  a  little  country-town, 
Wherefrom  a  long  acquainted  path  went  down 
To  the  dear  village  haunts  where  I  was  born  ; 
The  low  of  oxen  on  the  rainy  wind, 
Death  and  the  Past,  came  up  the  well-known  road, 
And  bathed  my  heart  with  tears,  but  stirr'd  my  mind 
To  tread  once  more  the  track  so  long  untrod  ; 
But  I  was  warn'd,  '  Regrets  which  are  not  thrust 
Upon  thee,  seek  not ;  for  this  sobbing  breeze 
Will  but  unman  thee  ;  thou  art  bold  to  trust 
Thy  woe-worn  thoughts  among  these  roaring  trees, 
And  gleams  of  by-gone  playgrounds — Is't  no  crime 
To  rush  by  night  into  the  arms  of  Time  ? ' 

Charles  Tennyson  Turner. 


ENGLISH  SONNETS. 


T  was  her  first  sweet  child,  her  heart's  deliglu 
And,  though  we  all  foresaw  his  early  doom, 
We  kept  the  fearful  secret  out  of  sight ; 
We  saw  the  canker,  but  she  kiss'd  the  bloom. 
And  yet  it  might  not  be  :  we  could  not  brook 
To  vex  her  happy  heart  with  vague  alarms, 
To  blanch  with  fear  her  fond  intrepid  look. 
Or  send  a  thrill  through  those  encircling  arms. 
She  smiled  upon  him,  waking  or  at  rest  : 
She  could  not  dream  her  little  child  would  die  : 
She  toss'd  him  fondly  with  an  upward  eye  : 
She  seem'd  as  buoyant  as  a  summer  spray, 
That  dances  with  a  blossom  on  its  breast, 
Nor  knows  how  soon  it  will  be  borne  away. 

Charles  Tennyson  Turner. 


BV  POETS  OF  THE  PAST. 


A    SUMMER   TWILIGHT. 


T  is  a  Summer's  gloaming,  balmy-sweet, 
A  gloaming  brightened  by  an  infant  moon, 
Fraught  with  the  fairest  light  of  middle  June  ; 
The  lonely  garden  echoes  to  my  feet, 
And  hark  !  O  hear  I  not  the  gentle  dews, 
Fretting  the  silent  forest  in  his  sleep  ? 
Or  does  the  stir  of  housing  insects  creep 
Thus  faintly  on  mine  ear  ?     Day's  many  hues 
Waned  with  the  paling  light  and  are  no  more. 
And  none  but  drowsy  pinions  beat  the  air  : 
The  bat  is  hunting  softly  by  my  door, 
And,  noiseless  as  the  snow-flake,  leaves  his  lair  ; 
O'er  the  still  copses  flitting  here  and  there, 
Wheeling  the  self-same  circuit  o'er  and  o'er. 

Charles  Tennyson  Turner. 


ENGLISH  SONNETS. 


THE   QUIET   TIDE   NEAR   ARDROSSAN. 


N  to  the  beach  the  quiet  waters  crept  : 
But,  though  I  stood  not  far  within  the  land, 
No  tidal  murmur  reached  me  from  the  strand. 
The  mirrored  clouds  beneath  old  Arran  slept. 
I  looked  again  across  the  watery  waste  : 
The  shores  were  full,  the  tide  was  near  its  height, 
Though  scarcely  heard  :  the  reefs  were  drowning  fast, 
And  an  imperial  whisper  told  the  might 
Of  the  outer  floods,  that  press'd  into  the  bay, 
Though  all  besides  was  silent.     I  delight 
In  the  rough  billows,  and  the  foam-ball's  flight : 
I  love  the  shore  upon  a  stormy  day  ; 
But  yet  more  stately  were  the  power  and  ease 
That  with  a  whisper  deepen'd  all  the  seas. 

Charles  Tennyson  Turner. 


BV  POETS  OF   THE  PAST. 


LETTY'S   GLOBE. 


/ 


HEN  Letty  had  scarce  passed  her  third  glad 
year, 
And  her  young,  artless  words  began  to  flow, 
One  day  we  gave  the  child  a  coloured  sphere 
Of  the  wide  earth,  that  she  might  mark  and  know, 
By  tint  and  outline,  all  its  sea  and  land. 
She  patted  all  the  world  ;  old  empires  peep'd 
Between  her  baby  fingers  ;  her  soft  hand 
Was  welcome  at  all  frontiers.     How  she  leap'd, 
And  laugh 'd,  and  prattled  in  her  world-wide  bliss  ; 
But  when  we  turned  her  sweet  unlearned  eye 
On  our  own  isle,  she  raised  a  joyous  cry, 
"  Oh  !  yes,  I  see  it,  Letty's  home  is  there  !  " 
And,  while  she  hid  all  England  with  a  kiss, 
Bright  over  Europe  fell  her  golden  hair. 

Charles  Tennyson  Turner. 


EXGLISH  SONKETS. 


THE   FOREST   GLADE. 


(T@5  S  one  dark  morn  I  trod  a  forest  glade, 
A  sunbeam  entered  at  the  further  end, 
And  ran  to  meet  me  thro'  the  yielding  shade- 
As  one,  who  in  the  distance  sees  a  friend, 
And,  smiling,  hurries  to  him  ;  but  mine  eyes, 
Bewilder'd  by  the  change  from  dark  to  bright, 
Received  the  greeting  with  a  quick  surprise 
At  first,  and  then  with  tears  of  pure  delight ; 
For  sad  my  thoughts  had  been — the  tempest's  wrath 
Had  gloom'd  the  night,  and  made  the  morrow  gray  ; 
That  heavenly  guidance  humble  sorrow  hath. 
Had  turned  my  feet  into  that  forest-way, 
Just  when  His  morning  light  came  down  the  path. 
Among  the  lonely  woods  at  early  day. 

Charles  Tennyson  Turner. 


By  POETS  OF   THE  PAST. 


THE   GOSSAMER-LIGHT. 

UICK  gleam  !  that  ridest  on  the  gossamer  ! 
How  oft  I  see  thee,  with  thy  wavering  lance, 
y  Tilt  at  the  midges  in  their  evening  dance, 
A  gentle  joust  set  on  by  summer  air  ! 
How  oft  I  watch  thee  from  my  garden-chair  ! 
And,  failing  that,  I  search  the  lawns  and  bowers, 
To  find  thee  floating  o'er  the  fruits  and  flowers. 
And  doing  thy  sweet  work  m  silence  there  : 
Thou  art  the  poet's  darling,  ever  sought 
In  the  fair  garden  or  the  breezy  mead  ; 
The  wind  dismounts  thee  not  ;  thy  buoyant  thread 
Is  as  the  sonnet,  poising  one  bright  thought. 
That  moves  but  does  not  vanish  !  borne  along 
Like  light, — a  golden  drift  through  all  the  song  ! 

Charles  Tennyson  Turner. 


176  ENGLISH  SONNETS. 


IN   AND   OUT   OF   THE   PINE-WOOD. 

^EYOND  the  pine-wood  all  look'd  bright  and 
clear — 
And,  ever  by  our  side,  as  on  we  drove. 
The  star  of  eve  ran  glimpsing  through  the  grove, 
To  meet  us  in  the  open  atmosphere ; 
As  some  fair  thought,  of  heavenly  light  and  force, 
Will  move  and  flash  behind  a  transient  screen 
Of  dim  expression,  glittering  in  its  course 
Through  many  loop-holes,  till  its  face  is  seen  ; 
Some  thoughts  ne'er  pass  beyond  their  close  confines  ; 
Theirs  is  the  little  taper's  homely  lot, 
A  woodside  glimmer,  distanced  and  forgot — 
Whose  trivial  gleam,  that  twinkles  more  than  shines, 
Is  left  behind  to  die  among  the  pines ; 
Our  stars  are  carried  out,  and  vanish  not  ! 

Charles  Tennyson  Turner. 


£V  POSTS  OF  THE  PAST. 


IRREPARABLENESS. 


HAVE  been  in  the  meadows  all  the  day 
And  gathered  there  the  nosegay  that  you  see, 
Singing  within  myself  as  bird  or  bee 
When  such  do  field-work  on  a  morn  of  May. 
But  now  I  look  upon  my  flowers,  decay 
Has  met  them  in  my  hands  more  fatally 
Because  more  warmly  clasped,  —  and  sobs  are  free 
To  come  instead  of  songs.     What  do  you  say, 
Sweet  counsellors,  dear  friends  ?  that  I  should  go 
Back  straightway  to  the  fields  and  gather  more  ? 
Another,  sooth,  may  do  it,  but  not  I  ! 
My  heart  is  very  tired,  my  strength  is  low. 
My  hands  are  full  of  blossoms  plucked  before. 
Held  dead  within  them  till  myself  shall  die. 

Elizabeth  Barrett  Browning. 


178  ENGLISH  SONNETS. 


GRIEF. 


TELL  you,  hopeless  grief  is  passionless  ; 
That  only  men  incredulous  of  despair, 
Half-taught  in  anguish,  through  the  midnight 
air 
Beat  upward  to  God's  throne  in  loud  access 
Of  shrieking  and  reproach.     Full  desertness 
In  souls  as  countries,  lietli  silent-bare 
Under  the  blanching,  vertical  eye-glare 
Of  the  absolute  Heavens.     Deep-hearted  man,  express 
Grief  for  thy  Dead  in  silence  like  to  death — 
Most  like  a  monumental  statue  set 
In  everlasting  watch  and  moveless  woe 
Till  itself  crumble  to  the  dust  beneath. 
Touch  it ;  the  marble  eyelids  are  not  wet : 
If  it  could  weep,  it  could  arise  and  go. 

Elizabeth  Barrett  Browning. 


BV  POETS  OF   THE  PAST. 


FINITE  AND  INFINITE. 

[IE  wind  sounds  only  in  opposing  straits. 
The  sea,  beside  the  shore  ;  man's  spirit  rends 
Its  quiet  only  up  against  the  ends 
Of  wants  and  oppositions,  loves  and  hates, 
Where,  worked  and  worn  by  passionate  debates, 
And  losing  by  the  loss  it  apprehends. 
The  flesh  rocks  round  and  every  breath  it  sends 
Is  ravelled  to  a  sigh.     All  tortured  states 
Suppose  a  straitened  place.     Jehovah  Lord, 
Make  room  for  rest,  around  me  !  out  of  sight 
Now  float  me,  of  the  vexing  land  abhorred. 
Till  in  deep  calms  of  space  my  soul  may  right 
Her  nature,  shoot  large  sail  on  lengthening  cord. 
And  rush  exultant  on  the  Infinite. 

Elizabeth  Barrett  Browning. 


ENGLISH  SONNETS. 


COMFORT. 

?|PEAK  low  to  me,  my  Saviour,  low  and  sweet 
From  out  the  hallelujahs,  sweet  and  low, 
Lest  I  should  fear  and  fall,  and  miss  Thee  so 
Who  art  not  missed  by  any  that  entreat. 
Speak  to  me  as  to  Mary  at  Thy  feet ! 

And  if  no  precious  gimis  my  hands  bestow. 
Let  my  tears  drop  like  amber  while  I  go 
In  reach  of  Thy  divinest  voice  complete 
In  humanest  affection — thus,  in  sooth. 
To  lose  the  sense  of  losing.     As  a  child. 
Whose  song-bird  seeks  the  wood  for  evermore. 
Is  sung  to  in  its  stead  by  mother's  mouth 
Till,  sinking  on  her  breast,  love-reconciled. 
He  sleeps  the  faster  that  he  wept  before. 

Elizabeth  Barrett  Browning. 


BV  POETS  OF   THE   PAST. 


FUTURITY. 

ND,  O  beloved  voices,  upon  which 
Ours  passionately  call  because  erelong 
Ye  brake  off  in  the  middle  of  that  song 
We  sang  together  softly,  to  enrich 
The  poor  world  with  the  sense  of  love,  and  witch 
The  heart  out  of  things  evil, — I  am  strong, 
Knowing  ye  are  not  lost  for  aye  among 
The  hills,  with  last  year's  thrush.     God  keeps  a  niche 
In  Heaven  to  hold  our  idols  :  and  albeit 
He  brake  them  to  our  faces  and  denied 
That  our  close  kisses  should  impair  their  white, 
I  know  we  shall  behold  them  raised,  complete. 
The  dust  swept  from  their  beauty, — glorified, 
New  Memnons  singing  in  the  great  God-light. 

Elizabeth  Barrett  Browning. 


i82  ENCLISH  SONNETS. 


THE  PROSPECT. 


:ETHINKS  we  do  as  fretful  children  do, 
Leaning  their  faces  on  the  window-pane 
\i>ii-^'^^ss:>^\    To    sigh   the    glass    dim    with    their   own 

breath's  stain, 
And  shut  the  sky  and  landscape  from  their  view  : 
And  thus,  alas,  since  God  the  Maker  drew 
A  mystic  separation  'twixt  those  twain, 
The  life  beyond  us,  and  our  souls  in  pain. 
We  miss  the  prospect  which  we  are  called  unto 
By  grief  we  are  fools  to  use.     Be  still  and  strong, 
O  man,  my  brother  !  hold  thy  sobbing  breath. 
And  keep  thy  soul's  large  window  pure  from  wrong  ; 

That  so,  as  life's  appointment  issueth, 
Thy  vision  may  be  clear  to  watch  along 
The  sunset  consummation-lights  of  death. 

Elizabeth  Barrett  Browning. 


SV  POETS  OF   THE  PAST. 


183 


\ 


THOUGHT  once  how  Theocritus  had  sung 
Of  the  sweet  years,  the  dear  and  wished -for 
years, 

Who  each  one  in  a  gracious  hand  appears 
lo  bear  a  gift  for  mortals,  old  or  young  : 
And,  as  I  mused  it  in  his  antique  tongue, 
I  saw,  in  gradual  vision  through  my  tears, 
The  sweet,  sad  years,  the  melancholy  years. 
Those  of  my  own  life,  who  by  turns  had  flung 
A  shadow  across  me.     Straightway  I  was  'ware, 

So  weeping,  how  a  mystic  shape  did  move 
Behind  me,  and  drew  me  backward  by  the  hair  ; 
And  a  voice  said  in  mastery,  while  I  strove,— 
'Guessnow  who  holds  thee?' — 'Death,'!  said.   But  there, 
The  silver  answer  rang,  — '  Not  Death,  but  Love.' 

Elizabeth  Barrett  Browning. 


i84  ENGLISH  SONNETS. 


Y  own  beloved,  who  hast  lifted  me 

From  this  drear  flat  of  earth  where  I   was 
thrown, 

And,  in  betwixt  the  languid  ringlets,  blown 
A  life-breath,  till  the  forehead  hopefully 
Shines  out  again,  as  all  the  angels  see, 

Before  thy  saving  kiss  !    My  own,  my  own. 
Who  camest  to  me  when  the  world  was  gone, 
And  I  who  looked  for  only  God,  found  thee  ! 
I  find  thee ;  I  am  safe,  and  strong,  and  glad. 

As  one  who  stands  in  dewless  asphodel. 
Looks  backward  on  the  tedious  time  he  had 

In  the  upper  life, — so  I,  with  bosom-swell. 
Make  witness,  here,  between  the  good  and  bad. 
That  Love,  as  strong  as  Death,  retrieves  as  well. 

Elizabeth  Barrett  Browning. 


BV  POETS  OF   THE  PAST. 


F  thou  must  love  me,  let  it  be  for  nought 
Except  for  love's  sake  only.     Do  not  say 
'  I  love  her  for  her  smile — her  look — her  way 
Of  speaking  gently, — for  a  trick  of  thought 
That  falls  in  well  with  mine,  and  certes  brought 
A  sense  of  pleasant  ease  on  such  a  day  ;' — 
For  these  things  in  themselves.  Beloved,  may 
Be  changed,  or  change  for  thee, — and  love,  so  wrought. 
May  be  unwrought  so.     Neither  love  me  for 

Thine  own  dear  pity's  wiping  my  cheeks  dry, — 
A  creature  might  forget  to  weep,  who  bore 

Thy  comfort  long,  and  lose  thy  love  thereby ! 
But  love  me  for  love's  sake,  that  evermore 
Thou  may'st  love  on,  through  love's  eternity. 

Elizabeth  Barrett  Browning. 


i86  EiVGLISH  SONNETS. 


S  it  indeed  so  ?    If  I  lay  here  dead, 
Wouldst  thou  miss  any  life  in  losing  mine  ? 
And  would  the  sun  for  thee  more  coldly  shine 
Because  of  grave-damps  falling  round  my  head  ? 
I  marvelled,  my  Beloved,  when  I  read 

Thy  thought  so  in  the  letter.     I  am  thine — 
But  .   .  so  much  to  thee  ?    Can  I  pour  thy  wine 
While  my  hands  tremble  ?  Then  my  soul,  instead 
Of  dreams  of  death,  resumes  life's  lower  range. 

Then,  love  me.  Love  !  look  on  me — breathe  on  me  ! 
As  brighter  ladies  do  not  count  it  strange. 

For  love,  to  give  up  acres  and  degree, 
I  yield  the  grave  for  thy  sake,  and  exchange 

My  near  sweet  view  of  Heaven,  for  earth  with  thee  ! 
Elizabeth  Barrett  Browning. 


BV  POETS  OF   THE  PAST. 


187 


/ 


\ 


OW  do  I  love  thee  ?    Let  me  count  the  ways. 
I  love  thee  to  the   depth  and  breadth  and 
height 

My  soul  can  reach,  when  feeling  out  of  sight 
For  the  ends  of  Being  and  ideal  Grace. 
I  love  thee  to  the  level  of  every  day's 
Most  quiet  need,  by  sun  and  candlelight. 
I  love  thee  freely,  as  men  strive  for  Right ; 
I  love  thee  purely,  as  they  turn  from  Praise; 
I  love  thee  with  the  passion  put  to  use 

In  my  old  griefs,  and  with  my  childhood's  faith. 
I  love  thee  with  a  love  I  seemed  to  lose 

With  my  lost  saints, — I  love  thee  with  the  breath. 
Smiles,  tears,  of  all  my  life  ! — and,  if  God  choose, 
I  shall  but  love  thee  better  after  death. 

Elizabeth  Barrett  Browning. 


ENGLISH  SOS  NETS. 


'^SS^ELOVED,  thou  hast  brought  me  many  flowers 
wj  05,-^1  Plucked  in  the  garden,  all  the  summer  through 
>£/'  ^i^r-Sii\     And  winter,  and  it  seemed  as  if  they  grew 


In  this  close  room,  nor  missed  the  sun  and  showers. 
So,  in  the  like  name  of  that  love  of  ours. 

Take  back  these  thoughts  which  here  unfolded  too, 

And  which  on  warm  and  cold  days  I  withdrew 
From  my  heart's  ground.    Indeed,  those  beds  and  bowers 
Be  overgrown  with  bitter  weeds  and  rue, 

And  wait  thy  weeding  ;  yet  here's  eglantine, 
Here's  ivy  ! — take  them,  as  I  used  to  do 

Thy  flowers,  and  keep  them  where  they  shall  not  pine  ; 
Instruct  thine  eyes  to  keep  their  colours  true. 

And  tell  thy  soul,  their  roots  are  left  in  mine. 

Elizabeth  Barrett  Browning. 


BV  POETS  OF  THE  PAST. 


F  I  might  choose,  where  my  tired  limbs  shall  lie 
When  my  task  here  is  done,  the  Oak's  green 
crest 


j    Should  rise  above  my  grave — a  little  mound 
I    Raised  in  some  cheerful  village  cemetery — 
!    And  I  could  wish,  that,  with  unceasing  sound 

A  lonely  mountain  rill  was  murmuring  by — 
I    In  music— through  the  long  soft  twilight  hours  ; 
;    And  let  the  hand  of  her,  whom  I  love  best, 
I    Plant  round  the  bright  green  grave  those  fragrant  flowers, 

In  whose  deep  bells  the  wild -bee  loves  to  rest— 
I    .\nd  should  the  robin,  from  some  neighbouring  tree, 
I    I'uvir  his  enchanted  song — oh,  softly  tread, 

Iiir  sure,  if  aught  of  earth  can  sooth  the  dead, 
'    lie  still  must  love  that  pensive  melody  ! 

John  Anster. 


ENGLISH  SONNETS. 


TO  THE  BRITISH  OAK. 


HEN,  sacred  plant,  the  Druid  sage  of  old. 
With  reverential  awe,  beheld  in  thee 
The  abode  or  emblem  of  Divinity, 
Methinks  some  vague  prophetic  vision  rolled 
Before  his  wondering  eyes,  and  dimly  told 
Thy  future  fame — thy  glorious  destiny  : 
Haply  e'en  then,  deep  musing,  he  might  see, 
Within  thy  trunk  revered,  that  Spirit  bold, 

Which  sprung  from  thence  in  after  times,  and  stood, 
Rejoicing  in  his  might,  on  Ocean's  flood, 
The  guardian  genius  of  Britannia's  Isle  ; 

At  whose  dread  voice  admiring  nations  bow, 

In  duteous  homage, — tyrants  are  laid  low — 

And  fierce  Oppression's  victims  learn  to  smile. 

Charles  Crocker. 


SV  POETS  OF   THE  PAST. 


OT  war,  nor  hurrying  troops  from  plain  to  plain, 
Nor  deed  of  high  resolve,  nor  stern  command. 
Sing  I ;  the  brow  that  carries  trace  of  pain 
Long  and  enough  the  sons  of  song  have  scann'd  : 
Nor  lady's  love  in  honeysuckle  bovver, 
With  helmet  hanging  by,  in  stolen  ease  ; 
Poets  enough  I  deemed  of  heavenly  power 
Ere  now  had  lavished  upon  themes  like  these. 
My  harp  and  I  have  sought  a  holier  meed  ; 
The  fragments  of  God's  image  to  restore. 
The  earnest  longings  of  the  soul  to  feed, 
And  balms  into  the  spirit's  wounds  to  pour  : 
One  gentle  voice  hath  bid  our  task  God-speed  ; 
And  now  we  search  the  world  to  hear  of  more. 

Henry  Ai.kokd. 


EXGLISH  SO. ^ NETS. 


I 


THE  MASTER'S  CALL. 

ISE,  said  the  Master,  come  unto  the  feast: — 
She  heard  the  call  and  rose  with  willing  feet ; 
But  thinking  it  not  otherwise  than  meet 
For  such  a  bidding  to  put  on  her  best, 
She  is  gone  from  us  for  a  few  short  hours 
Into  her  bridal  closet,  there  to  wait 
P"or  the  unfolding  of  the  palace-gate, 
That  gives  her  entrance  to  the  blissful  bowers. 
We  have  not  seen  her  yet,  though  we  have  been 

Full  often  to  her  chamber-door,  and  oft 
Have  listened  underneath  the  postern  green. 

And  laid  fresh  flowers,  and  whispered  short  and  soft ; 
But  she  hath  made  no  answer ;  and  the  day 
From  the  clear  west  is  fading  fast  away. 

Henry  Alford. 


£y  POETS  OF   THE  PAST. 


'  UT  deck  the  board ; — for  hither  comes  a  band 
Of  pure  young  spirits,  fresh  arrayed  in  white, 
Glistering  against  the  newly-risen  light ; 
Over  the  green  and  dew-impearled  land 
Blithsomely  tripping  forward  hand  in  hand  : 
Deck  ye  the  board :  and  let  the  guest  be  dight 
In  gospel  wedding-garment  rich  and  bright, 
And  every  bud  that  summer  suns  expand. 
For  you,  ye  humble  ones,  our  thickets  bloom : 
Ye  know  the  texture  of  each  opening  flower, 
And  which  the  sunshine,  and  which  love  the  gloom. 
The  shrill  of  poised  larks  for  many  an  hour 
Ye  watch ;  and  all  things  gentle  in  your  hearts 
Have  place,  and  play  at  call  their  tuneful  parts. 

Henry  Alford. 


ENGLISH  SONNETS. 


TO  MARY. 

]N  thy  young  brow,  my  sister,  twenty  years 

Have  shed  their  sunshine ;  and  this  April  morn 
y     Looks  on  thee  fresh  and  gladsome,  as  new-born 
From  veiling  clouds  the  king  of  day  appears : 
Thou  scarce  canst  order  back  the  thankful  tears 
That  swell  in  thy  blue  eyes :  nor  dare  to  meet 
The  happy  looks  that  never  cease  to  greet 
Thee  the  dear  nursling  of  our  hopes  and  fears. 
This  Easter-tide  together  we  have  read 

How  in  the  garden,  when  that  weeping  one 
Asked  sadly  for  her  Lord  of  some  unknown. 
With  look  of  sweet  reproof  He  turned  and  said, 
"  Mary" — Sweet  sister,  when  thy  need  shall  be, 
That  word,  that  look,  so  may  He  tuni  on  thee ! 

Henrv  Alford. 


BV  POETS  OF   THE  PAST. 


ADY,  I  bid  thee  to  a  sunny  dome 
Ringing  with  echoes  of  Italian  song : 
Gi>i^^^l     Henceforth  to  thee  these  magic  halls  belong, 

And  all  the  pleasant  place  is  like  a  home. 
Hark,  on  the  right  with  full  piano  tone 
Old  Dante's  voice  encircles  all  the  air; 
Hark  yet  again,  like  flute-tones  mingling  rare, 
Comes  the  keen  sweetness  of  Petrarca's  moan. 
Pass  thou  the  lintel  freely :  without  fear 
Feast  on  the  music :  I  do  better  know  thee, 
Than  to  suspect  this  pleasure  thou  dost  owe  me 
Will  wrong  thy  gentle  spirit,  or  make  less  dear 
That  element  whence  thou  must  draw  thy  life, — 
An  English  maiden  and  an  English  wife. 

Arthur  Henry  Hallam. 


,,6  ENGLISH  SONNETS. 


H  blessing  and  delight  of  my  young  heart, 
Maiden,  who  M^ert  so  lovely  and  so  pure, 
I  know  not  in  what  region  now  thou  art, 
Or  whom  thy  gentle  eyes  in  joy  assure. 
Not  the  old  hills  on  which  we  gazed  together, 
Not  the  old  faces  which  we  both  did  love. 
Not  the  old  books  whence  knowledge  we  did  gather- 
Not  these,  but  others  now  thy  fancies  move. 
I  would  I  knew  thy  present  hopes  and  fears. 
All  thy  companions,  with  their  pleasant  talk. 
And  the  clear  aspect  which  thy  dwelling  wears  ; 
So,  though  in  body  absent,  I  might  walk 

With  thee  in  thought  and  feeling,  till  thy  mood 
Did  sanctify  mine  own  to  peerless  good. 

Arthur  Henry  Hallam. 


By  POETS  OF   THE  PAST. 


TO  TPIE  AUTHORESS  OF  "OUR  VILLAGE." 

[IE  single  eye,  the  daughter  of  the  light ; 
Well  pleased  to  recognize  in  lowliest  shade 
Some  glimmer  of  its  parent  beam,  and  made 
By  daily  draughts  of  brightness,  inly  bright : 
The  taste  severe,  yet  graceful,  trained  aright 
In  classic  depth  and  clearness,  and  repaid 
By  thanks  and  honour  from  the  wise  and  staid, 
By  pleasant  skill  to  blame  and  yet  delight. 
And  high  communion  with  the  eloquent  throng 
Of  those  who  purified  our  speech  and  song — 
All  these  are  yours.     The  same  examples  lure 
You  in  each  woodland,  me  on  breezy  moor — 
With  kindred  aim  the  same  sweet  path  along, 
To  knit  in  loving  knowledge  rich  and  poor. 

Charles  Kingslev. 


198  ENGLISH  SONNETS. 


/ 


/ 


ON  THE  RAMPARTS  AT  ANGOULEME. 


ilHY  art  thou  speechless,  O  thou  setting  Sun? 
Speak  to  this  earth,  speak  to  this  listening  scene, 
Where  Charente  flows  among  the  meadows 
green. 
And  in  liis  gilded  waters,  one  by  one, 
The  inverted  minarets  of  poplar  quake 
With  expectation,  until  thou  shalt  break 
The  intolerable  silence.     See  !  he  sinks 
Without  a  word  ;  and  his  ensanguined  bier 
Is  vacant  in  the  west,  while  far  and  near 
Behold  !  each  coward  shadow  eastward  shrinks. 
Thou  dost  not  strive,  O  Sun,  nor  dost  thou  cry 
Amid  thy  cloud-built  streets  ;  but  meek  and  still 
Thou  dost  the  tyjie  of  Jesus  best  fulfil, 
A  noiseless  revelation  in  the  sky. 

Frederick  W^illiam  Faber. 


Bl'  POETS  OF   THE  PAST. 


|iUR  thoughts  are  greater  than  ourselves,  our 
dreams 
Ofttimes  more  solid  than  our  acts ;  our  hope 
With  more  of  substance  and  of  shadow  teems 
Than  our  thin  joys,  and  hath  a  nobler  scope. 
O  sons  of  men  !  there  is  a  Presence  here, 
Here  in  our  undying  spirits,  which 
With  an  unearthly  wealth  doth  oft  enrich 
The  reason  hourly  sanctified  by  fear. 
Herewith  men  prophesy,  herewith  men  press 
To  their  own  hearts  in  studious  loneliness 
Forms  greater  than  they  dare  to  tell :  beneath 
The  shadow  of  their  own  imaginings 

They  sit,  withdrawn  and  sheltered ;  for  a  wreath 
Encircles  them,  a  wreath  of  Angels'  wings. 

Frederick  William  Faber. 


ENGLISH  SONNETS. 


IIKE  a  musician  that  with  flying  finger 
iviL^-P^^I  Startles  the  voice  of  some  new  instrument, 
S>ja>-H»|  And,  though  he  know  that  inonestringare  blent 


All  its  extremes  of  sound,  yet  still  doth  linger 
Among  the  lighter  threads,  fearing  to  start 
The  deep  soul  of  that  one  melodious  wire, 
Lest  it,  unanswering,  dash  his  high  desire. 
And  spoil  the  hopes  of  his  expectant  heart ; — 
Thus,  with  my  mistress  oft  conversing,  I 
Stir  every  lighter  theme  with  careless  voice, 
Gathering  sweet  music  and  celestial  joys 
From  the  harmonious  soul  o'er  which  I  fly  ; 
Yet  o'er  the  one  deep  master-chord  I  hover, 
And  dare  not  stoop,  fearing  to  tell— I  love  her. 

William  Caldwell  Roscoe. 


£V  POETS  OF   THE  PAST. 


■jAD  soul,  whom  God,  resuming  what  He  gave, 
Medicines  with  hitter  anguish  of  the  tomb. 
Cease  to  oppress  the  portals  of  the  grave, 

And  strain  thy  aching  sight  across  the  gloom. 

The  surged  Atlantic's  winter-beaten  wave 

Shall  sooner  pierce  the  purpose  of  the  wind, 

Than  thy  storm-tossed  and  heavy-swelling  mind 

Grasp  the  full  import  of  his  means  to  save. 

Through  the  dark  night  lie  still ;  God's  faithful  grace 

Lies  hid,  like  morning,  underneath  the  sea  ; 

Let  thy  slow  hours  roll,  like  these  weary  stars, 

Down  to  the  level  ocean  patiently  ; 

Till  his  loved  hands  shall  toiich  the  Eastern  bars. 

And  his  full  glory  shine  upon  thy  face. 

William  Caldwell  Roscoe. 


/ 


ENGLISH  SONNETS. 


SOLITUDE. 


SOLITUDE  !— amidst  these  ancient  oaks, 
Whose  shadows  broad  sleep  on  tlie  mossy 
ground, 

And  breeze-fanned  boughssend  fortha  shimberous  sound, 
Wliose  rugged  trunks  the  hoary  lichen  cloaks. 
Where  leaps  the  squirrel,  and  the  raven  croaks — 
These  rifted  thorns,  with  snaky  ivy  bound, 
In  many  a  fold  fantastic,  round  and  round, — 
These  tree-Laocoons — which  the  woodman's  strokes 
Shall  never  make  to  totter  to  their  fall, — 

Which  time  alone  shall  waste, — how  dear  art  thou 
To  me,  who  commune  with  thy  calmness  now. 
When  peaceful  Evening  spreads  her  purple  pall. 
And  Contemplation,  with  her  scroll  unfurled. 
Brings  sad-sweet  thoughts  to  wean  me  from  the  world. 

Thomas  Noel. 


BV  POETS  OF  THE  PAST. 


TIME'S  WAVES. 

f 
AV^E  follows  wave  towards  the  waste  sea-shore, 

One  rising  where  another  doth  subside  ; 

■L     So  day  to  day  succeedeth  evermore, 

Those  silent  waves  on  Time's  unresting  tide  ; 

And  we  are  like  the  ocean-birds,  that  ride 

Upon  the  billows  ;  on  their  summits  hoar 

I         One  moment  now  they  sit,  and  seem  to  soar  ; 

I         The  next,  into  the  black  abyss  they  glide : — 

)      Thus  we  elated  rise,  and  are  deprest 

Upon  the  changeful  billow  of  each  day. 

In  light  and  gloom  alternate,  ne'er  at  rest, 

1      In  good  nor  evil  ever  at  a  stay, 

Yet  looking  still  to  find  some  halcyon  nest 

I  Of  peace,  when  all  Time's  waves  have  passed  away. 

Thomas  Noel. 


EXCLISH  SOXNETS. 


THE  ACONITE. 


g^SlLOWER,  that  foretell'st  a  Spring  thoune'ev  shalt 


j^^^^'^l  Yet  smilest  still  upon  thy  wintry  day, 


Content  with  thy  joy-giving  destiny, 

Nor  envying  fairer  flowers  their  festal  May, — 

O  golden-chaliced  Aconite  !  I'll  lay 

To  heart  the  lesson  that  thou  teachest  me  ; 

I,  too,  contented  with  my  times  will  be. 

And  still  a  placid  aspect  will  display 

In  tempest-troubled  seasons, — nor  repine 

That  others,  coming  after,  shall  enjoy 

A  calmer  day,  a  sunnier  sky  than  mine ; 

To  speed  the  present,  be  my  sweet  employ; — 

To  cast  into  a  stormy  world  my  mite 

Of  cheer,  like  thee,  gloom-gilding  Aconite! 

Thomas  Noel. 


BV  FOETS  OF   THE  PAST. 


J 


^^^■lEAUTY  still  walketh  on  the  earth  and  air: 

w 

^*  I     Our  present  sunsets  are  as  rich  in  gold 
As  ere  the  Iliad's  music  was  out-rolled ; 
The  roses  of  the  Spring  are  ever  fair, 
'Mong  branches  green  still  ring-doves  coo  and  pair, 
And  the  deep  sea  still  foams  its  music  old  : 
So,  if  we  are  at  all  divinely-souled. 
This  beauty  will  unloose  our  bonds  of  care. 
'Tis  pleasant,  when  blue  skies  are  o'er  us  bending 
Within  old  stany-gated  Poesy, 

To  meet  a  soul  set  to  no  worldly  tune. 
Like  thine,  sweet  Friend  !    Oh,  dearer  this  to  me 
Than  are  the  dewy  trees,  the  sun,  the  moon. 
Or  noble  music  with  a  golden  ending. 

Alexander  Smith. 


ENGLISH  SOX  NETS. 


TO  AMERICA. 

OR  force  nor  fraud  shall  sunder  us !    Oh  ye 
Who  north  or  south,  on  east  or  western  land, 
Native  to  noble  sounds,  say  truth  for  truth, 
Freedom  for  freedom,  love  for  love,  and  God 
For  God ;    Oh  ye  who  in  eternal  youth 
Speak  with  a  living  and  creative  flood 
This  universal  English,  and  do  stand 
Its  breathing  book  ;  live  worthy  of  that  grand 
Heroic  utterance — parted,  yet  a  whole, 
Far,  yet  unsevered— children  brave  and  free 
Of  the  great  mother-tongue,  and  ye  shall  be 
Lords  of  an  empire  wide  as  Shakspeare's  soul, 
Sublime  as  Milton's  immemorial  theme. 
And  rich  as  Chaucer's  speech,  and  fair  as  Spenser's  dream. 

Sydney  Dobell. 


£]-  POETS  OF   THE  PAST. 


TO  A  FRIEND  IN  BEREAVEMENT. 

O  comfort,  nay,  no  comfort.     Yet  would  I 
In  Sorrow's  cause  with  Sorrow  intercede. 
Burst  not  the  great  heart, — this  is  all  I  plead  ; 
Ah,  sentence  it  to  suffer,  not  to  die. 
"  Comfort?"    If  Jesus  wept  at  Bethany— 
That  doze  and  nap  of  Death — how  may  we  bleed 
Who  watch  the  long  sleep  that  is  sleep  indeed  ! 
Pointing  to  Heaven  I  but  remind  you  why 
On  earth  you  still  must  mourn.     He  who,  being  bold 
For  life-to-come,  is  false  to  the  past  sweet 
Of  mortal  life,  hath  killed  the  world  above. 
For  \vlj^to  live  again  if  not  to  meet  ? 

And  why  to  meet  if  not  tb"meet  in  love  ?  y^ 

And  why  in  love  if  not  in  that  dear  love  of  old  ? 

-  ■■-•'~"^gy'gfyEV  DoBELL. 


EXGLISH  SONNETS. 


AD  MATREM. 
(March  13,  1S62.) 


FT  in  the  after-days,  when  thou  and  I 
Have  fallen  from  the  scope  of  human  view. 
When,  both  together,  under  the  sweet  sky 
We  sleep  beneath  the  daisies  and  the  dew, 
Men  will  recall  thy  gracious  presence  bland. 
Conning  the  pictured  sweetness  of  thy  face ; 
Will  pore  o'er  paintings  by  thy  plastic  hand. 
And  vaunt  thy  skill,  and  tell  thy  deeds  of  grace. 
Oh  may  they  then,  who  crown  thee  with  true  bays. 
Saying,  "  What  love  unto  her  son  she  bore !" 
Make  this  addition  to  thy  perfect  praise, 
"  Nor  ever  yet  was  mother  worshipped  more  !" 
So  shall  I  live  with  thee,  and  thy  dear  fame 
Shall  link  my  love  unto  thine  honoured  name. 

Julian  Fane. 


BY  POETS  OF  THE  PAST. 


AD  MATREM. 


(March  13,  1S64.) 


USIC,  and  frankincense  of  flowers,  belong 
To  this  sweet  festival  of  all  the  year. 
Take,  then,  the  latest  blossom  of  my  song, 
And  to  Love's  canticle  incline  thine  ear. 
1     What  is  it  that  Love  chaunts  ?  thy  perfect  praise. 
I    \Vhat  is  it  that  Love  prays?  worthy  to  prove. 
i    What  is  it  Love  desires?  thy  length  of  days. 
\N'hat  is  it  that  Love  asks?  return  of  love. 
Ah,  what  requital  can  Love  ask  more  dear 
'    ']"han  by  Love's  priceless  self  to  be  repaid? 
I    Tiiy  lil)eral  love,  increasing  year  by  year, 
I    I  lath  granted  more  than  all  my  heart  hath  prayed, 
I        And,  prodigal  as  Nature,  makes  me  pine 

To  think  how  poor  my  love  compared  with  thine  ! 
1  Julian  Fane. 


EXGLISH  SONNETS. 


AD  MATREM. 
(March  13,  1870.) 


^5«^| 


P,  like  a  wanderer  from  the  world  of  shades, 
Back  to  the  firm  earth  and  familiar  skies, 
Back  to  that  light  of  love  that  never  fades — 
The  unbroken  sunshine  of  thy  blissful  eyes, 
I  come — to  greet  thee  on  this  happy  day 
That  lets  a  fresh  pearl  on  thy  life  appear  ; 
That  decks  thy  jewelled  age  with  fresh  array 
Of  good  deeds  done  within  the  circled  year ; 
So  art  thou  robed  in  majesty  of  grace, 
In  regal  purple  of  pure  womanhood  ; 
Throned  in  thy  high  pre-eminence  of  place  ; 
Sceptred  and  crowned,  a  very  Queen  of  Good. 
Receive  my  blessing,  perfect  as  thou  art, 
Queen  of  all  good,  and  sovereign  of  my  heart. 

Julian  Fane. 


£V  POETS  OF  THE  PAST. 


A   DISAPPOINTMENT. 


PRING,  of  a  sudden,  came  to  life  one  day. 

Ere  this,  the  winter  had  been  cold  and  chill. 

That  morning  first  the  summer  air  did  fill 
The  world,  making  bleak  March  seem  almost  May. 
The  daffodils  were  blooming  golden  gay  ; 
The  birch  trees  budded  purple  on  the  hill ; 
The  rose,  that  clambered  up  the  window-sill, 
Put  forth  a  crimson  shoot.     All  yesterday 
The  winds  about  the  casement  chilly  blew, 
But  now  the  breeze  that  played  about  the  door. 
So  caught  the  dead  leaves  that  I  thought  there  flew 
Brown  butterflies  up  from  the  grassy  floor. 
-    But  someone  said  you  came  not.     Ah,  too  true  ! 
And  I,  I  thought  that  winter  reigned  once  more. 

Alice  Mary  Blunt. 


EACL ISH  SOXXK  TS. 


BROTHER   AND   SISTKR. 


UR  mother  bade  us  keep  the  trodden  ways, 
Stroked  down  my  tippet,  set  my  brother's  frill. 
Then  with  the  benediction  of  her  gaze 
Clung  to  us  lessening,  and  pui-sued  us  still 
Across  the  homestead  to  the  rookery  elms, 
Whose  tall  old  trunks  had  each  a  grassy  mound. 
So  rich  for  us,  we  counted  them  as  realms 
With  varied  products  :  here  were  earth-nuts  found, 
And  here  the  Lady-fingers  in  deep  shade  ; 
Here  sloping  toward  the  Moat  the  rushes  grew, 
The  large  to  split  for  ])ith,  the  small  to  braid  ; 
While  over  all  the  dark  rooks  cawing  flew, 
And  made  a  happy  strange  solemnity, 
A  deep-toned  chant  from  life  unknown  to  me, 

George  Eliot. 


BY  POETS  OF   THE  PAST. 


BROTHER   AND    SISTER. 

HUB  rambling  we  were  schooled  in  deepest  lore, 
And  learned  the  meanings  that  give  words  a 
soul, 

The  fear,  the  love,  the  primal  passionate  store, 
Whose  shaping  impulses  make  manhood  whole  : 
Those  hours  were  seed  to  all  my  after  good  ; 
My  infant  gladness,  through  eye,  ear,  and  touch, 
Took  easily  as  warmth  a  various  food 
To  nourish  the  sweet  skill  of  loving  much. 
For  who  in  age  shall  roam  the  earth  and  find 
Reasons  for  loving  that  will  strike  out  love 
With  sudden  rod  from  the  hard  year-pressed  mind  ? 
Were  reasons  sown  as  thick  as  stars  above, 
'Tis  love  must  see  them,  as  the  eye  sees  light  : 
Day  is  Init  Number  to  the  darkened  sight. 

George  Eliot. 


ENGLISH  SONNETS. 


/ 


TO   A   BROOKLET. 


DEEP  unlovelj'  brooklet,  moaning  slow 
Through  moorish  fen  in  utter  loneliness  I 
The  partridge  cowers  beside  thy  loamy  flow 
In  pulseful  tremor,  when  with  sudden  press 
The  huntsman  fluskers  through  the  rustled  heather. 
In  March  thy  sallow-buds  from  vermeil  shells 
Break  satin-tinted,  downy  as  the  feather 
Of  moss-chat,  that  among  the  purplish  bells 
Breasts  into  fresh  new  life  her  three  unbom. 
The  plover  hovers  o'er  thee,  uttering  clear 
And  mournful-strange  his  human  cry  forlorn. 
Wliile  wearily,  alone,  and  void  of  cheer, 
Thou  guid'st  thy  nameless  waters  from  the  fen. 
To  sleep  unsunned  in  an  untrampled  glen. 

David  Gray. 


£y  POETS  OF   THE  PAST. 


THE  LUGGIE. 

FOR  the  days  of  sweet  Mythology, 
When  dripping  Naiads  taught  their  streams  to 
gUde ! 

When,  'mid  the  greenery,  one  would  ofttimes  spy 

An  Oread  tripping  with  her  face  aside. 

The  dismal  realms  of  Dis  by  Virgil  sung, 

Whose  shade  led  Dante,  in  his  virtue  bold. 

All  the  sad  grief  and  agony  among, 

O'er  Acheron,  that  mournful  river  old, 

Ev'n  to  the  Stygian  tide  of  purple  gloom  ! 

Fan  in  the  forest  making  melody  ! 

And  far  away  where  hoariest  billows  boom, 

Old  Neptune's  steeds  with  snorting  nostrils  high  ! 

These  were  the  ancient  days  of  sunny  song  ; 

Their  memory  yet  how  dear  to  the  poetic  throng. 

David  Gray. 


K  XGL ISH  SO  A:V7:  /S. 


I 


SUNSET. 

AV — like  a  conqueror  marching  to  his  rest, 
The  warfare  finished  and  the  victory  won. 
And  all  the  pageant  of  his  triumph  done — 
Seeks  his  resplendent  chamber  in  the  West : 
Yon  clouds,  like  pursuivants  and  heralds  drest 
In  gorgeous  blazonry,  troop  slowly  on. 
Bearing  abroad  the  banners  of  the  sun 
That  proudly  stream  o'er  many  a  warriors  crest. 
In  the  azure  field  a  solitary  star 

Lifts  its  pale  signal,  and  the  glorious  train 
Of  errant  sunbeams,  straggling  from  afar, 

Reform  their  glittering  ranks,  and  join  again 
Tlieir  father  Phcebus  in  his  golden  car. 

Whose  panting  steeds  have  snuffed  the  western  main. 

Georok  Morine. 


La  brevita'  del  sonetto  non  comporta  che  una  sola  parola  sia  vana, 
ed  il  vero  subietto  e  materia  del  sonetto  debbe  essere  qualche  acuta 
e  gentile  sentenza,  narrata  attamente,  ed  in  pochi  versi  ristretta,  e 
fuggendo  la  oscurita  e  durezza. 

Continent,  di  Lor.  de  Med.  sopya  i  sjtoi  soiictii. 


HE  two  sonneteers  that  preceded  Spenser, 
namely,  Sir  Thomas  Wyatt  and  the  Earl  of 
Surrey,  are  not  included  in  the  foregoing 
selection,,  as  their  sonnets  are  not  such  as  would  please,  or 
interest,  the  large  majority  of  modern  readers.  To  Wyatt, 
iiowever,  must  be  attributed  the  honour  of  having  written 
the  first  English  Sonnet,  for,  as  Mr.  Deshler  points  out  in 
his  interesting  Afternoons  with  the  Poets,  many  of  his 
sonnets  are  said  to  have  been  addressed  to  Anne  Boleyn 
before  her  connection  with  Henry  the  Eighth,  and  must 
therefore  have  been  written  when  the  Earl  of  Surrey  was 
not  more  than  fifteen  years  of  age.  The  following,  in 
which  the  poet  '  Relinquisheth  the  Pursuit,'  was  pro- 
bably composed  about  the  time  of  that  lady's  marriage  to 


220  AOTES. 

the  King,  and  will  he  esteemed  hy  poetic  anti(|uarians  as 
being  the  work  of  the  earliest  English  sonneteer  : — 

Whoso  list  to  hunt?  I  know  where  is  a  hind  ! 
/  But  as  for  me,  alas  !  I  may  no  more. 

The  vain  travail  hath  wearied  me  so  sore  ; 

1  am  of  them  that  furthest  come  behind. 
Yet  may  I  by  no  means  my  wearied  mind 

Draw  from  the  deer  ;  but  as  she  fleeth  afore, 

Fainting  I  follow  :  I  leave  off,  therefore, 

Since  in  a  net  I  seek  to  hold  the  wind. 
Who  list  her  hunt,  I  put  him  out  of  doubt, — 

As  well  as  I,  may  spend  his  time  in  vain  ! 

And  graven  with  diamonds  in  letters  plain. 
There  is  written  her  fair  neck  round  about, — 

"  Noli  me  tangere  ;  for  Caesar's  I  am. 

And  wild  for  to  hold,  though  I  seem  tame." 

This  is  a  crude  and  faulty  composition,  and  those  by  the 
Earl  of  Surrey,  his  friend  and  contemporaiy,  are  liy  no 
means  perfect,  although  the  latter  is  one  of  the  poets 
who  have  been  honoured  with  the  title  of  "The  English 
Petrarch."  The  sonnet  on  Sardanapaliis  is  perhaps 
his  best,  and  is  here  given  as  a  fair  example  of  his  power 
of  versification  : — ■ 

The  Assyrian  King,  in  peace,  with  foul  desire 
''       And  filthy  lusts  that  stained  his  regal  heart : 


NOTES.  221 

In  war,  that  should  set  princely  hearts  on  fire, 

Did  yield,  vanquished  for  want  of  martial  art. 

The  dint  of  swords  from  kisses  seemed  strange. 

And  harder  than  his  lady's  side  his  targe  ; 

From  glutton  feasts  to  soldier's  fare  a  change  ; 

His  helmet  far  above  a  garland's  charge  : 

Who  scarce  the  name  of  manhood  did  retain. 

Drenched  in  sloth  and  womanish  delight, 

Feeble  of  spirit,  impatient  of  pain, 

When  he  had  lost  his  honour  and  his  right, 

(Proud  time  of  wealth,  in  storms  appalled  with  dread,) 

Murdered  hiuiself,  to  show  some  manful  deed. 

It  required  no  extraordinary  perception  to  discover  whose 
head  this  little  cap  was  intended  to  fit,  and  one  is  scarcely 
surprised  to  find  that  the  King  afterwards  thought  proper, 
under  some  pretext  or  other,  to  order  Surrey's  execution. 
His  ]Majesty  was  himself  somewhat  of  a  sonneteer,  for 
Wart  on  in  his  History  of  English  Poetry  states,  "  I 
have  been  told  that  the  late  Lord  Eglintoun  had  a  genuine 
book  of  manuscript  sonnets  written  by  King  Henry  the 
Eighth."  He  was  also  skilled  in  musical  composition, 
and  Erasmus  attests  that  he  composed  some  church 
services.  As  regards  sonnet-writing,  however,  he  is  not 
the  only  sovereign  we  have  had  that  has  indulged  in  the 
composition  of  this  form  of  verse,  as  James  the  First  has 


222  .VO  TES. 

left  us  more  than  one  example  of  his  poetic  genius,  and 
his  sonnet  in  honour  of  Sir  Philip  Sidney  is  not  entirely 
without  merit. 

Page  I.  Easter  Morning  and  Willing  Bondage  are 
the  gems  of  Spenser's  Amoretti ;  they  may  justly  be  classed 
with  those  sonnets  that  are  of  the  very  highest  excellence. 

Page  lO.  Constable,  who  was  a  Roman  Catholic  and 
probably  a  member  of  the  Yorkshire  family  of  that  name, 
was  inferior  as  a  poet  to  several  of  his  contemporaries,  but 
the  praise  given  to  him  by  Warton  in  the  following  criti- 
cism is  not  excessive,  or  undeserved  : — '"  It  would  not  be 
at  all  diffrcult  to  select  some  very  favourable  and  pleasing 
specimens  of  Constable's  skill  in  versification.  If  he  had 
not  in  any  high  degree  the  true  genius  of  poetry,  at  least 
he  may  be  said  to  have  possessed  a  large  share  of  poetical 
taste  and  enthusiasm,  and  while  he  steered  clear  of  two 
cardinal  vices  of  the  age,  coarseness  and  insipidity,  to 
have  produced  a  considerable  number  of  sonnets  of  un- 
common elegance  and  even  beauty." — Perhaps  the  one 
entitled  Favour,  which  has  been  omitted  from  previous 
sonnet-anthologies,  is  nevertheless  in  some  respects  the 
most  pleasing  of  his  compositions,  although  Mr.  Minto  has 


NOTES.  22 

rightly  described  that  on  page  II  as  "the  most  extniisite  f 

of  his  sonnets  for  sweet  colour  and  winning  fancy."  I 

Pa^e  15.    "  There  is,  after  all,  nothing  more  remarkable 

or  fascinating  in  English  poetry  than  these  personal  revela-  | 
tions  of  the  mind  of  our  greatest   poet.     We  read  them 

again  and  again,  and  find  each  time  some  new  proof  uf  his  . 
almost  superhuman  insight  into  human  nature  ;  of  his  un- 
unrivalled  mastery  over  all  the  tones  of  love." — F.  T. 
Palgrave. 

"The  student  of  Shakspere  is  drawn  to  the  sonnets  not  » 

alone  by  their  ardour  and  depth  of  feeling,  their  fertility  :' 

and  condensation  of  thought,  their  exquisite  felicities  of  (. 

phrase,   and  their  frequent  beauty   of  rhythmical    move-  ,' 

ment,  but  in  a  peculiar  degree  by  the  possibility  that  here,  1 

if  nowhere  else,  the  greatest  of  English  poets  may — as  1 

Wordsworth    puts    it — have   unlocked    his    heart."— E.  ' 

DOVVDEN. 

!  These  two  paragraphs  clearly  represent  the  almost 
I  unanimous  opinion  of  the  present  generation  respecting 
j  Shakespeare's  sonnets,  and  one  reads  with  astonishment 
'  the  wondrous  criticism  of  George  Steevens  to  the  effect  that 
I  'ihomas  Watson  was  "a  more  elegant  sonneteer  than 
( 


J24  A'O  TES. 

Shakespeare. "  Watson  was  a  conlcnipoiai y  of  ihc  great 
dramatist,  and  the  following  may  be  given  as  a  rather 
favoural^le  specimen  of  his  work  : — 

I  saw  the  object  of  my  pining  thonght 
Within  a  garden  of  sweet  Nature's  placing  : 
Wherein  an  arbour  artificial  wrought, 
By  workman's  wondrous  skill  the  garden  gracing, 
Did  boast  his  glory,  glory  far  renowned, 
For  in  his  shady  boughs  my  mistress  slept ; 
And  with  a  garland  of  his  branches  crowned, 
Her  dainty  forehead  from  the  Sun  he  kept 
Imperious  Love  upon  her  eyelids  tending. 
Playing  hi.s  wanton  sports  at  everj'  beck, 
And  into  every  finest  limb  descending, 
From  eyes  to  lips,  from  lips  to  ivory  neck  ; 
And  every  limb  supplied,  and  t' every  part 
Had  free  access,  but  durst  not  touch  her  heart. 

Pa£c  28.  Nothing  could  be  more  charming,  or  sweeter- 
toned,  than  this  sonnet  on  Content,  and  the  one  entitled 
The  Talent  is  but  little  inferior.  It  is  surprising  to  find 
both  Constable  and  Barnes  omitted  from  Leigh  Hunt's 
Book  of  the  Sonnet, — while  Mr.  John  Dennis,  in  the 
Notes  to  his  selection,  states  that  he  "has  been  unable  to 
find  one  sonnet,  out  of  the  large  number  written  by  Barnes, 
that  is   adapted  to  his   collection."     If,  as  Dr.   Grosart 


NOTES.  225 

States,  Ah,  S-weet  Content  xm^iiov lis  "sweet,  soft  simple- 
ness,"  have  formed  part  of  the  Arcadia, — the  quaint 
solemn  beauty  of  The  Talent  might  have  added  another 
leaf  to  the  wreaths  that  encircle  the  brows  of  Donne  and 
George  Herbert.  It  may  be  mentioned  that  Barnes  was 
born  in  the  county  of  York  about  the  year  1568,  and  was 
the  younger  son  of  Dr.  Barnes,  Bishop  of  Durham  :  he 
was  educated  at  Brasenose  College,  Oxford,  and  subse- 
quently accompanied  the  Earl  of  Essex  into  France. 
Those  subscribers  who  have  the  good  fortune  of  possessing 
copies  of  Dr.  Grosart's  excellent  reprint  of  Barnes'  poems 
are  much  to  Vje  congratulated. 

Page  31.  Drummond  of  Hawthornden,  has  been  de- 
signated, and  rigTuIyV'^'the  Scottish  Petrarch  "  :  with  the 
exception  of  Shakespeare  he  is  the  most  important  son- 
neteer before  Milton,  and  his  compositions  are  both  melo- 
dious and  picturesque.  One  of  the  most  remarkable  of 
his  sonnets  is  that  on  Alary  Magdaloi,  which  for  striking 
and  bold  originality,  for  I'reslTness  of  thought  and  expres- 
sion, for  delicious  imagery  and  tender  pathos,  may  com- 
pare favourably  with  our  best  English  sonnets.  It  should 
be  mentioned  that  his  well-known  sonnet  beginning 
Q 


226  .VOTES. 

"Alexis,  here  she  stayed,"  is  addressed  to  William 
Alexander,  Earl  of  Stirling,  who  was  himself  a  poet,  and 
has  the  honour  (so  far  as  is  known)  of  having  written  the 
first  Dialogue  sonnet  in  English,  which  is  here  given  for 
that  reason  : — 

A. 
What  art  thou,  in  such  sort  that  wail'st  thy  fall, 
And  comes  surcharged  with  an  excessive  grief? 

H. 

A  woeful  wretch,  that  comes  to  crave  relief. 
And  was  his  heart  that  now  hath  none  at  all. 

A. 

Why  dost  thou  thus  to  me  unfold  thy  state. 
As  if  with  thy  mishaps  I  would  embroil  me  ? 

H. 

Because  the  love  I  bare  to  you  did  spoil  me. 
And  was  the  insirument  of  my  hard  fate  : — 

A. 
And  dare  so  base  a  wretch  so  high  aspire, 
As  for  to  plead  for  interest  in  my  grace  ? 
Go,  get  thee  hence  !    Or  if  thou  dost  not  cease 
I  vow  to  burn  thee  with  a  greater  fire. 

H. 

Ah,  ah, — this  great  unkindness  stops  my  breath. 
Since  those  that  I  love  best  procure  my  death. 
1604. 


NOTES.  227 

Page  40.  It  may  possibly  be  urged  by  those  who  are 
not  conversant  with  tlie  history  of  the  Sonnet  that  these 
two  examples  by  Robert  Herrick  are  not  sonnets  at  all. 

S  Such  objectors  may  well  be  referred  to  a  short  paper 
by  no  less  an  authority  than  Samuel  Taylor  Coleridge, 
entitled  "  What  is  a  Sonnet?"  which  they  will  find  in 
Blackwood's  "  Edinburgh  Magazine, "  for  June,  1832.  The 
form  used  by  Herrick  is  as  legitimate  as  that  in  which 
Shakespeare's  sonnets  are  written,  and  it  is  that  adopted 
by  Thomas  Carew  in  his  sonnet  Lovers  Force,  by  Edmund 
Waller,  by  Cotton,  and  more  especially  by  William 
Habington,  the  most  productive  sonneteer  of  Herrick's 

}[    contemporaries,  whose  well-known  collection  of  poems, 

Castara,  is  mainly  composed  of  sonnets  written  in  this 

form.     The  following  may  be  quoted  as  a  representative 

example  of  Habington's  style : — 

Where  sleeps  the  north-wind  when  the  south  inspires 
Life  in  the  spring,  and  gathers  into  quires 
The  scattered  nightingales  ;  whose  subtle  ears 
Heard  first  the  harmonious  language  of  the  spheres  ; 
Whence  hath  the  stone  magnetic  force  to  allure 
The  enamoured  iron  ;  from  a  seed  impure 
Or  natural  did  first  the  mandrake  grow  ; 
What  power  i'  th'  ocean  makes  it  ebb  and  flow  : 


228  NOTES. 

What  strange  materials  is  the  azure  sky 

Compacted  of ;  of  what  its  brightest  eye 

The  ever-flaming  sun  ;  what  people  are 

In  the  unknown  world  ;  what  worlds  in  every  star ; 

Let  envious  fancies  at  this  secret  rove  ; 

Castara,  what  we  know  we'll  practice,  love. 

Another  sonnet,  also  addressed  to  Castara,  begins  : — 

By  those  chaste  lamps  which  yield  a  silent  light 
To  the  cold  urns  of  virgins  ;  by  that  night 
Which  guilty  of  no  crime,  doih  only  hear 
The  vows  of  recluse  nuns  and  the  anthrit's  prayer  ; — 

and  ends  : — 

Thus  my  bright  Muse  in  a  new  orb  shall  move, 
And  even  teach  religion  how  to  love. 

These  lines  are  of  themselves,  perhaps,  sufficient  to 
prove  that  Habington  was  a  poet,  and  one  gifted  with  a 
fairly  keen  perception  of  the  beautiful,  yet  it  is  to  be 
regretted  that  he  did  not  compose  his  sonnets  in  the 
Guittonian  form,  instead  of  following  the  example  of 
Shakespeare  and  adopting  a  loose  nondescript  variation. 
The  earliest  fourteen-lined  poem  of  this  description  that 
we  remember  to  have  met  with  is  Lyly's  Cupid  and 
Campaspe,  which  is  described  in  Percy's  "  Reliques  of 
Ancient  Poetr}-,"  as  an  "exquisite   sonnet."     The  latest 


NOTES.  229 

example  that  we  know  of  is  Mr.  Edward  Carpenter's 
/n  JMorteiii  F.  D.  Maurice,  which  will  be  found  at  page 
144  of  English  Sonnets  by  Living  Writers. 

Page  45.  So  much  has  been  written  about  the  sonnets 
of  Milton  til  at  it  is  unnecessary  to  here  eulogize  these 
"soul-animating  strains,"  as  Wordsworth  wisely  desig- 
nates them.  The  nearest  approach  that  has  been  made 
to  their  severe  grandeur  is  to  be  found  in  the  Rev.  Thomas 
Russell's  At  Lemnos  (page  69)  and  few  sonnets  have  re- 
ceived such  high  praise  as  this  has  had  bestowed  upon  it 
by  no  less  illustrious  critics  than  Gary,  Landor,  Words- 
worth, Southey,  &c.  It  should  be  observed,  however, 
that  Coleridge  seems  to  have  preferred  the  sonnet  given  at 
page  70.     l!ut  "  nemo  solus  sapit  !  " 

Page  60.  When  Bowles  first  published  his  sonnets  he 
was  accused  of  having  imitated  those  of  Charlotte  Smith. 
In  what  high  estimation  this  lady's  work  was  still  held 
nearly  thirty  years  after  her  death,  may  be  gathered  from 
the  fact  that  the  late  Rev.  Alexander  Dyce  included  no 
fewer  than  nine  of  her  sonnets  in  his  Selection,  whereas 
he  only  gives  one  by  Keats,  and  entirely  omits  those  of 
Shelley  and  Byron. 


230  NOTES. 

Page  62.  The  whole  of  this  sonnet  shows  a  master's 
touch.  As  might  be  expected,  the  best  sonnets  have  been 
written  by  the  greatest  poets— by  Dante,  Shakespeare, 
Milton,  and  \Yorclsworth, — and  one  is  not  surprised,  there- 
fore, to  find  that  this  by  Burns  is  so  good.  The  first 
four,  and  last  two,  lines  are  especially  excellent. 

Page  65.  This — Echo  and  Silence — is  one  of  the  most 
famous  of  sonnets,  and  won  no  little  praise  for  its  raithor. 
Southey  wrote  respecting  it,  "I  know  not  any  poem,  in 
any  language,  more  beautifully  imaginative."  It  is  no 
doubt  a  highly  finished  and  pleasing  composition,  and 
perhaps  it  were  hypercritical  to  inquire  why  Echo  is  de- 
picted as  wearing  a  "  robe  oi dark-green  hue." 

Page  87.  The  sonnets  of  S.  T.  Coleridge  are  far  from 
being  his  best  work,  yet  two  of  them  are  unquestionably 
good,  namely.  Nature  and  Farewell  to  Love.  Perhaps  tht 
very  worst  of  all  his  sonnets— and  he  wrote,  if  we  remember 
rightly,  about  five-and-twenty — is  that  To  the  Aiithor  of 
"  The  Robbers,^'  of  which  Wordsworth  very  justly  ob- 
served that  it  was  "too  much  of  a  rant"  for  his  taste. 

Page  94.  To  Innocctice.  Lamb  was  probably  not  far 
wrona;  in  thinkincr  that  this  was  the  best  of  his  "ewe 


NOTES.  231 

lambs,"  as  he  playfully  called  his  sonnets.     It  is  certainly 

far  more  pleasitig  than  the  one  on  Work,  with  its  prosaic 

■'dry  drudgery  at  the  desk's  dead  wood,"  and   Satan's 

•  'pensive  working-day  'mid  rotatory  burnings  !  "  While  it 

is  less  objectionable  than  his  sonnet  on  Leisure,  with  its 

comic  "white  top  of  Methusalem," — and  the  dull,  un- 

poetic  bnes, 

Which  only  works  and  business  can  redress — 
Improbus  Labor,  which  my  spirits  hath  broke. 

At  the  same  time  this,  his  favourite  "ewe  lamb,"  is  not 
altogether  without  blemish,  for  Innocence  does  not  become 
"  awful  "  to  ordinary  men  and  women,  even  when  it  has, 
in  a  measure,  departed  from  them  ;  and  most  readers  will 
])robably  agree  in  thinking  that  the  finest  and  noblest  of 
Lamb's  sonnets, — and  a  very  fine  and  noble  sonnet  it 
certainly  is,— is  that  entitled  To  a  Friend. 

Page  96.  There  is  a  sonnet  by  Lord  Herbert  of  Cher- 
bury,  containing  a  somewhat  similar  idea  to  that  of  Blanco 
Vv^hite's,  of  which  the  last  lines,  referring  to  Night,  are  as 

follows : — 

When  thou  dost  reign, 
The  characters  of  fate  shine  in  the  skies, 
And  tell  us  what  the  heavens  do  ordain  : 


2  32  NOTES. 

But  when  earth's  common  Light  shines  to  our  eyes 
Thou  so  retir'st  thyself,  that  thy  disdain 
All  revelation  unto  man  denies. 

But  tliere  is  another  sonnet  by  Blanco  White — he  only 
wrote  two — written  some  years  before  his  Night  and 
Death,  the  last  three  lines  of  which  clearly  foreshadow 
the  subsequent  composition,  and  which,  as  it  has  not 
been  printed  in  any  previous  selection  of  sonnets,  is  here 
given  : — 

ON    HEARIN6    MYSELF    FOR    THE    FIRST   TIME 
CALLED  AN  OLD  .MAN.     Ml.  50. 

Ages  have  rolled  within  my  breast,  though  yet 
Not  nigh  the  bourn  to  fleeting  man  assigned  : 
Yes  :  old — alas  !  how  spent  the  struggling  mind 
Which  at  the  noon  of  life  is  fam  to  set ! 

My  dawn  and  evening  have  so  closely  met 
That  men  the  shades  of  night  begin  to  find 
Darkening  my  brow  ;  and  heedless,  not  unkind. 
Let  the  sad  warning  drop  without  regret. 

Gone  Youth  1  had  I  thus  missed  thee,  nor  a  hope 
Were  left  of  thy  return  beyond  the  tomb, 
I  could  curse  life  : — But  glorious  is  the  scope 

Of  an  immortal  soul ! — O  Death  !   thy  gloom. 
Short,  and  already  tinged  with  coming  light, 
Is  to  the  Christian  but  a  summer's  night ! 

Page  98.   Horace  Smith's  sonnets  appear  to  have  been 


iVOTBS.  233 

overlooked  : — the  first  eight  lines  of  this,  on  A  Piping 
Fault,  have  somewhat  of  the  pleasing  melody  of  Mr. 
Andrew  Lang's  Bion,  which  is  given  at  page  35  oi  English 
Sonnets  by  Living  Writa-s. 

Page  109.  Rev.  Charles  Strong  was  a  friend  of  Dean  I 
Alford,  and  they  were  both  Fellows  of  Wadham  College,  ) 
Oxford.  The  "Athenaeum,"  in  1838,  observes  "  Mr.  (now  ' 
Archbishop)  Trench,  if  we  recollect  right,  was  highly 
praised  by  that  modern  guardian  of  sonnets,  Christopher  i 
North,  for  his  exquisite  performance  on  the  fourteen-  i 
stringed  lute.  To  us,  he  seems  to  linger  behind  others  of  | 
his  compeers  ;  we  need  but  name  one,  Mr.  Strong,  who 
far  excels  him." 

Much  as  we  admire  these  richly-coloured  compositions 
by  Charles  Strong,  we  are  not  inclined  to  concur  with  the 
above  criticism,  for  why  compare  Old  Crome  with  Tinto- 
retto, or  Marcus  Aurelius  with  Mr.  Ruskin  ? 

Page  124.  The  sonnets  of  Thomas  Doubleday  were 
published  anonymously  in  18 18,  and  were  honoured  with 
an  entire  article  in  Blackwood's  "  Edinburgh  Magazine," 
in  1S22.  The  writer  of  the  paper  remarks  : — "  We  have 
no  hesitation  in  saying  that,    next   to  Wordsworth  and 


234  NOTES. 

Bowles,  this  anonymous  poet,  for  he  is  a  poet,  is  the  best 
writer  of  sonnets  in  our  day."  And  tliis  was  wiitten  the 
year  after  the  death  of  Keats  ! 

Page  125.  Ozymaiidias  is  the  one  sonnet  by  Shelley 
which  has  won  for  itself  a  niche  beside  such  masteq^ieces 
as  Milton's  Massacre  in  Piedmont,  Keats'  ChapmaiC s 
Hoi/ier,  and  Blanco  Wiite's  Night  and  Death;  and  yet 
there  is  another  sonnet  by  Shelley  which  is  but  little  in- 
ferior to  it,  namely,  that  beginning,  "  Ye  hasten  to  the 
dead  !  What  seek  ye  there  ?  " 

Page  130.  Dean  Milman,  the  illustrious  author  of  the 
"  History  of  the  Jews,"  and  "  History  of  Christianity," 
was  the  son  of  Sir  Francis  Milman,  Bart.,  and  was  born 
in  London  in  1791.  He  was  educated  at  Eton,  and 
Brasenose  College,  Oxford,  and  obtained  the  Newdigate 
Prize  in  1812,  the  subject  of  the  poem  being  the  Apollo 
Belvidere.  His  tragedy  of  Fazio  was  produced  at  Drury 
Lane  on  Februar}-  5,  1818,  and  afterwards  in  America,  the 
acting  of  Miss  Fanny  Kemble  contributing  to  its  success. 
Other  plays  and  poems  followed  this  in  rapid  succession, 
but  it  is  as  a  historian,  and  as  a  good,  wise,  and  much  be- 
loved man,rather  than  as  a  poet,  that  Milman  will  descend 


NOTES.  235 

to  posterity.  He  belonged  to  the  Broad  or  liberal  section 
of  the  Church,  and  ranks  with  Archbishop  Whately, 
F.  D.  Maurice,  Charles  Kingsley,  and  the  late  Dean 
Stanley  as  leaders  of  that  school. 

Page  1 60.  The  sonnets  of  Hood  scarcely  appear  to  have 
received  the  recognition  that  they  deserve.  They  have  a 
strength  of  thought,  and  clearness  of  expression  that 
should  insure  them  a  higher  rank  than  they  have  yet 
l)een  permitted  to  take.  That  on  page  160  is  indeed  al- 
most unequalled  for  solemn,  tender  pathos. 

Page  169.  Tifne  and  Tioilight.  This  sonnet  is,  we  be- 
lieve, highly  esteemed  by  the  Laureate.  Perhaps  of  all 
his  brother's  sonnets  The  Quiet  Tide  near  Ardi-ossan,  and 
The  Lattice  at  Sunrise,  will  be  most  admired  by  cultured 
judges,  but  amongst  ordinary  readers  Letty^s  Globe  will 
probably  be  the  favourite. 

Charles  Turner's  compositions  are  marked  by  a  pleasant 
simplicity  and  beauty,  and  no  one  can  deny  either  their 
originality,  or  the  poetic  genius  with  which  they  are  in- 
spired. But,  as  an  old  writer  quaintly  observes,  "  a  good 
piece,  the  painters  say,  must  have  good  muscling,  as 
well  as  colouring  and  drapery,"  and  there  is,   perhaps, 


236  NOTES. 

just  a  slight  defect  in  this  respect  in  some  of  his  poems, 
tliough  not  in  those  quoted  in  this  vohime.  The  defect 
becomes  more  apparent  if  they  are  compared  with  sonnets 
lilve  tliose  by  Mr.  D.  G.  Rossetti,  but  it  is  only  fair  to  add 
that  even  the  sonnets  of  Shakespeare  or  Milton  seem  to  lose 
somewhat  of  their  grandeur  when  compared  with  Mr. 
Rossetti's  Refusal  of  Aid  bcHueen  Nations,  or  his  noble 
sonnet  entitled  The  Suit's  SJtaiiw. 

Page  190.  The  author  of  this  sonnet,  The  British  Oak, 
— which  Southey  pronounced  to  be  one  of  the  best  in  the 
language — was  born  in  humble  life,  and  is,  perhaps,  not 
unworthy  to  be  ranked  with  such  poets  as  Clare  and 
Bloomfield.  The  late  Mr.  Lower,  in  his  IVorthies 
of  Sussex,  stated,  somewhat  extravagantly,  that  The 
Oak  had  rarely  been  excelled  in  the  whole  round  of 
English  poetiy.  It  is,  however,  chiefly  remai-kable  as 
being  the  composition  of  a  poor  labouring  man.  We 
have  to  thank  the  Rev.  Thomas  Agar  Holland,  v>ho  was 
personally  acquainted  with  the  author,  for  kindly  calling 
our  attention  to  it. 

Ta^e  202.  Solitude.  This  sonnet,  quoted  in  the 
"  Athenzeum  "  for  1842,  has  not  been  included  in  pre- 


NO  TES.  237 

vious  sonnet-anthologies  ;  it  is,  however,  one  which  will 
bear  comparison  with  the  best,  and  has  somewhat  of 
the  calm  serenity  of  Lord  Hanmer's  Pine  Woods.  (See 
page  24  of  English  Soniwis  by  Living  Writers.)  It  is 
taken  from  his  Rhymes  and  Roundelays,  published  in 
1841.  Miss  Mitford,  in  her  Recollections  of  a  Literary 
Life  writes  :  "Mr.  Noel  resides  in  a  beautiful  place  in 
that  beautiful  neighbourhood  (Taplow),  leading  the  life  of 
an  accomplished  but  somewhat  secluded  country  gentle- 
man ; — a  most  enviable  life,  and  one  well  adapted  to  the 
observation  of  nature  and  to  the  production  of  poetry,  but 
by  no  means  so  well  calculated  to  make  a  volume  of  poems 
extensively  known." 

There  is  a  quaint  and  striking  poem  by  Noel  entitled 
The  Pauper's  Drive  which  is  perhaps  the  most  popular  of 
his  compositions,  and  which  is  included  in  Mr.  Thomas 
Solly's  Coronal  of  English  Verse. 

Page  211.  Brother  and  Sister.  These  two  Shakespearian 
quatorzains  are  fairly  representative  of  George  Eliot's 
surpassing  genius,  and  her  deep  insight  into  human  nature 
and  the  eternal  forces  from  which  it  springs. 

Page  213.     A  Disappointment.     This   is  said   to  have 


238  NOTES. 

been  the  author's  sole  composition  in  verse.  It  is  n  jioem 
that  lingers  pleasantly  in  the  memory  :  indeed,  it  is  a 
dainty  creation  of  a  sweet  and  delicate  beauty,  and,  in  the 
words  of  the  Portuguese  aphorism,  'tis  shut'vith  a  golden 
key.  It  has  been  previously  published  by  '  Proteus  ' 
amongst  his  own  very  remarkable  sonnets. 

Page  216.  George  Morine  died  at  the  town  of  Don- 
caster  in  1872,  aged  sixty-three.  His  poems  were  printed 
for  private  circulation  only.  We  have  to  thank  the  Rev. 
R.  Wilton  for  brintjins:  them  to  our  notice. 


CHtSWICK    PRESS  : — C.   WHITTINGHAM    AND    CO.,    TOOKS   COUKT, 
CHANCERY    LANE. 


By  the  Same  Author. 

ENGLISH  SONNETS  by  Living  Writers.      Selected  and 
Arranged,  with  a  Note  on  the  History  of  the  Sonnet.     I'"cap.  3vo,  4s,  Ui. 

Opinions  of  tlie  Press. 

AtHEN.'EUM. 
"  Quite  a  little  treasury'  of  poetic  wealth." 

St.  James's  Gazette. 

"Those  interested  in  this  form  of  verse  have  reason  to  be  grateful 
to  Mr.  Waddington,  since  he  gives  them  in  one  delicate  little  volume 
a  large  number  of  copyright  sonnets  by  various  hands.  Many  of  the 
examples  he  has  chosen  are  of  great  beauty,  as  is  to  be  e.xpected  in  a 
collection  taken  from  the  works  of  Tennyson,  Swinburne,  Matthew 
Arnold,  Frances  Anne  Kemble,  D.  G.  Rossetti,  Lord  Lytton, 
Sebastian  Evans,  and  many  others.  Two  sonnets  by  Mr.  Waddington 
himself  are  placed  by  him  at  the  end  of  the  volume,  as  he  says,  'in 
order  not  to  offend  any  author  by  placing  him  at  the  very  end.'  This, 
for  a  poet,  is  a  very  modest  reason  ;  but  we  must  accept  it  as  the  true 
one.  In  any  ca>e,  the  last  sonnet  in  the  book  excels  the  last  but  one — 
and  that  may  compare  favourably  with  many  that  take  precedence  of 
it.  His  note  on  'The  Sonnet,  its  History  and  Composition  '  is  well 
written  and  valuable." 

The  Academy. 

"  Never  in  England,  except  in  the  Elizabethan  time,  and  hardly 
ever  out  of  Italy,  except  in  France  at  the  same  period,  and  again  in 
our  own  day,  would  it  have  been  possible  to  get  together  such  a  col- 
lection. Nor  is  it  remarkable  only  for  bulk  and  for  general  formal 
excellence.  It  is  invidious  to  specify  individuals  in  such  a  case  ;  but 
the  sonnet  work  of  Mr.  D.  G.  Rossetti  alone  would  be  enough  to 
enable  any  age  to  hold  up  its  head  with  the  best  in  this  kind,  and  not 
a  few  of  the  many  writers  whom  Mr.  Waddington  has  laid  under  con- 
tribution come  very  close  to  Mr.  Rossetti." 

The  Saturday  Review. 

"  This  selection  is  a  singularly  attractive  one,  and  its  value  is  en- 
hanced by  the  interesting  '  Note,"  as  the  editor  modestly  calls  it,  on 
the  history  of  the  sonnet  which  is  appended  to  the  volume." 


OP/yWA'S  OF  THE  PRESS. 

Pall  Mall  Gazktte. 

"  We  think  that  the  editor  has  done  his  work  verj- well  indeed,  and  we 

are  sure  that  revilers  of  contemporary  poetry  ought  to  feel  themselves 

somewhat  put  to  shame  by  this  collection  of  contemporary  poems  in 

a  form  which  has  been  sanctioned  as  the  subject  of  special  thought 

and  special  care  by  almost  all  the  greatest  poets  of  the  last  400  years. 

...     The  critical  opinions  expressed  in  Mr.  Waddington's  note  on 

t    the  sonnet  are  almost  wholly  sound,  and,  in  especial,  he  is  perfectly 

S    right  in  remarking  on  the  great   inferiority  of  Milton's  sonnets  to 

those  of  Shakespeare  and  Wordsworth.     Nowhere  to  our  knowledge 

i   is  the  history  of  the  sonnet  better  put  in  a  short  space." 

Notes  and  Queries. 

"  Mr.  Tennyson,  who  is  here  represented  by  '  Montenegro,'  is 
notoriously  not  at  his  own  level  in  this  form.  Mr.  Matthew  Arnold 
and  Mr.  Rossetti  are  more  fortunate,  and  it  is  difficult  to  say  which 
is  the  better.  .  .  .  Next  to  these  two  masters  comes  Mr.  Long- 
\  fellow,  whose  sonnets  on  Dana's  burial,  and  the  Ponte  Vecchio  at  • 
j  Florence,  are  among  the  best  work  of  his  tuneful  and  serene  old  age. 
j[  After  these,  again,  there  are  a  crowd  of  writers,  most  of  whom  follow 
them  at  no  long  interval.  The  sonnets  of  Mrs.  Kemble,  of  Arch- 
bishop Trench,  of  Mr.  J.  A.  Symonds,  Prof.  Dowden,  Mr.  E.  Gosse, 
and  Mr.  George  Macdonald  areola  high  order  of  excellence.  Many 
of  the  best  examples  in  this  volume  are  suggested  by  famous  names. 
Such  are  Mr.  Ernest  Myers's  liliiton,  Mr.  Watson's  Beethoven,  Mr. 
'Lang's  Ho»ier,  Mr.Brodie's  Keats,  and  Mr.  Richard  Garnett's /?«?;/('. 
Ol  other  writers  who>e  work  we  have  found  especially  attractive  may 
be  mentioned  Mr.  O'Shaughnessy,  Mr.  Aldrich,  Mr.  Monkhou«e, 
and  Lord  Hanmer,  whose  Old  Fisher  \sa.i  clear-aired  as  Theocritus. 
.  .  .  The  selection  is  made  with  great  skill,  and  (v.'e  suspect)  with 
much  critical  restraint.  It  is  also  rendered  more  valuable  by  a  care- 
ful Note  upon  the  Sonnet,  in  which,  as  well  by  examples  in  the  body 
of  the  book,  the  editor  shows  that  he  himself  possesses  a  practical  and 
very  successful  knowledge  of  the  form." 

Spectator. 

"  Mr.  Waddington  has  executed  his  task  with  care  and  judgment, 
and  we  believe  that  his  book  wdl  prove  a  pleasant  possession  to  a  not 
inconsiderable  number  of  readers.  .  .  .  At  one  time,  a  sonnet  must 
always  be  addressed  to  the  eyebrow,  or  some  other  possession,  of  a 
mistress  ;  then  the  fashion  changes  and  people  weary  of  a  succession 
of  short  poems,  each  setting  forth  some  quality  of  the  adored  one. 


OPINION'S  OF   THE  PRESS. 

Or  the  sonnet  becomes  an  idyll— according  to  the  original  meaning 
of  the  word,  a  little  picture — as  purely  descriptive  of  a  landscape  as 
Vicat  Cole's  canvas.  Or  it  is  full  of  colour,  but  vague  and  formless, 
like  Mr.  Whistler's  most  misty  picture.  .  .  .  Some  of  the  sonnets 
are  very  good,  and  most  are  pleasant  to  read,  if  not  of  first-class  ex- 
cellence. A  rather  striking  feature  in  the  book  is  the  tendency  to 
reveal  personal  matters,  which  is  not  peculiar  to,  yet  characteristic 
of,  this  age.  Fine  examples  of  this  kind  of  sonnet  are  to  be  found  on 
two  consecutive  pages  ;  in  Mr.  O'Shaughnessy's  to  his  mother,  and 
Mr.  P.  B.  Marston's  to  his  dead  wife.  Others  express  the  desire  to 
penffrate  into  the  unknown,  de!5pair  of  the  endeavour,  or  hope  and 
belief  JNIr.  Waddington  has  brought  together  a  number  of  voices, 
which  may  be  said  to  be  representative  of  the  age,  for  good  and  evil ; 
and  the  book  will  be  worth  possessing,  if  for  that  reason  only." 

Westminster  Review. 

"  Mr.  Waddington  has  hit  upon  the  excellent  idea  of  giving  us  a 
collection  of  the  best  sonnets  by  living  writers.  We  are  glad  to  see 
that  he  has  printed  some  of  the  sonnets  of  an  almost  utterly  forgotten 
poet.  Lord  Hanmer.  That  Lord  Hanmer  should  be  so  strangely 
neglected  as  a  poet  is  a  mystery.  .  .  .  Mr.  Waddington  concludes 
his  volume  with  a  most  interesting  Essay  on  The  Sonnet." 

The  Critic  (New  York). 

"  Mr  Waddington's  dainty  book  leaves  little  to  be  desired.  .  . 
On  the  whole  he  has  admirably  fidfiUed  his  editorial  task,  and  given 
us  in  compact  and  pleasing  shape  much  of  the  sweetest  and  most 
graceful  English  lyric  poetry  that  has  been  produced  within  recent 
years." 

The  Nation  (New  York). 

"The  successful  execution  of  Mr.  Waddington's  happy  thought 
cannot  but  emphasize  one's  respect  for  the  poetical  product  of 
the  Victorian  age." 

Gloee. 

"A  pretty  little  book  with  very  pretty  contents  ;  one  of  those 
volumes  into  which  one  can  dip  in  leisure  moments  with  the  certainty 
of  finding  solace  for  the  wearied  mind.  On  the  whole  the  editor  has 
made  a  decidedly  good  selection." 


Or/X/OXS  OF  THE  PRESS. 

Darlington  and  Stockton  Timks. 

"  The  bock  contains  many  sonnets  of  creat  hcaiily  and  delicacy, 
and  Mr.  WaddinRton  has  displayed  much  judgment  and  taste  in  the 
selectinus  he  has  made.  .  .  .  The  editor  cnntributes  two  sonnets 
himself,  modestly  placing  them  at  the  end  of  the  book  ;  these  prove 
conclusively  Mr.  Waddington's  ability  to  excel  in  this  form  of  com- 
position, and  that  entitled  '  Soul  and  Body  '  possesses  so  much  of 
the  e.ssential  quality  of  true  poetry  that  we  are  templed  to  (|uotc  it 
in  e.xtcnso-  " 

CIrapiiic. 

"  A  very  admirable  collection  of  its  kind  is  '  English  Sonnets  by 
Living  Writers.'  .  .  .  Here  we  have  some  of  the  best  examples 
of  such  poets  as  Mr.  D.  G.  Rossctti,  Mrs.  Pfeiffer,  Mrs.  F"ann_y 
Kemble  and  others  ;  the  author  has  no  need  to  be  ashamed  of  his 
own  two  efforts  which  close  the  volume  so  far  as  the  poetry  is  con- 
cerned. The  essays  are  excellent,  and  give  a  very  fair  notion  of  the 
history  of  the  sonnet." 


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